Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he was satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure on Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea first familiar, and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the consideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of affection might not be very distant.
He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father; and recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left to Crawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.
Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's account of Fanny's disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_; for, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not help fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving his addresses properly before the young man's inclination for paying them were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit quietly and hope the best.
The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of what she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was in every way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.
She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when Miss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford looking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than she had anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse to be endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She was determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low voice, "I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere"; words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her nerves. Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead the way out of the room. She did it with wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.
They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was over on Miss Crawford's side. She immediately shook her head at Fanny with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed hardly able to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but, "Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you," and had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of having four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and took her guest to the apartment which was now always fit for comfortable use; opening the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling that she had a more distressing scene before her than ever that spot had yet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst on her was at least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on her mind which the finding herself in the East room again produced.
"Ha!" she cried, with instant animation, "am I here again? The East room! Once only was I in this room before"; and after stopping to look about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she added, "Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience and prompter. A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we were, just in this part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I, here were the chairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?"
Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.
"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of it so very-very-what shall I say? He was to be describing and recommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as demure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches. 'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a happy life.' I suppose no time can ever wear out the impression I have of his looks and voice as he said those words. It was curious, very curious, that we should have such a scene to play! If I had the power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be that week-that acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be _that_; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His sturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But alas, that very evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your most unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet, Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas, though I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice now. He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I now love you all." And having said so, with a degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a moment to recover herself. "I have had a little fit since I came into this room, as you may perceive," said she presently, with a playful smile, "but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have not the heart for it when it comes to the point." And embracing her very affectionately, "Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the last time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything but love you."
Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word "last." She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she possibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of such emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, "I hate to leave you. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we shall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to be connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear Fanny."
Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, "But you are only going from one set of friends to another. You are going to a very particular friend."
"Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But I have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of the friends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in general. You have all so much more _heart_ among you than one finds in the world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to trust and confide in you, which in common intercourse one knows nothing of. I wish I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a much better time for the visit, but now I cannot put her off. And when I have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because _she_ was rather my most particular friend of the two, but I have not cared much for _her_ these three years."
After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each thoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the world, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. _She_ first spoke again.
"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea whereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I came along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table at work; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the door, at seeing me here! To be sure, your uncle's returning that very evening! There never was anything quite like it."
Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she thus attacked her companion.
"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one who is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could transport you for a short time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your power over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that will be felt at hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the hero of an old romance, and glories in his chains. You should come to London to know how to estimate your conquest. If you were to see how he is courted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am well aware that I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his situation with you. When she comes to know the truth she will, very likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree. Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the _sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there will be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be about as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was a most desirable match for Janet at the time. We were all delighted. She could not do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman, a beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself. And my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how to make the best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say nothing worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call to mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there _is_ attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. I shall be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet has been sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side: she did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of foresight. She took three days to consider of his proposals, and during those three days asked the advice of everybody connected with her whose opinion was worth having, and especially applied to my late dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally and deservedly looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance, and she was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were a security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character. I _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even the air of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye, Flora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I to attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love with him, I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you so insensible as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not."
There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's face at that moment as might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.
"Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not possible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some surmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to please you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you at the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I remember it perfectly."
"Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand? Oh! Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair."
"Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to act on his proposal for both your sakes."
"I will not say," replied Fanny, "that I was not half afraid at the time of its being so, for there was something in your look that frightened me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at first-indeed, indeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your brother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: I had been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but then I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being his way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing between him and some part of this family in the summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford amused himself in gallantries which did mean nothing."
"Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and cared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies' affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault; and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's power to pay off the debts of one's sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman's nature to refuse such a triumph."
Fanny shook her head. "I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of."
"I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little in love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as a tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to. And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you."
Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.
"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier," continued Mary presently, "than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's commission."
She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.
"Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him."
"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours; and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him."
Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching her complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called her attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking with you here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve."
A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied these words.
"I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."
The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _tte--tte_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted.
It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything.
In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman.
When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed.
On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny could tell, and he was satisfied. Crawford had been too hasty. Once she was used to the idea of his being in love with her, a return of affection might not be very distant.
He gave this opinion to his father; and recommended that nothing more be said to her: but that everything should be left to Crawford's diligence, and the natural workings of her own mind.
Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. He believed Edmund's account of Fanny's nature to be just, but he considered it as unfortunate; for he could not help fearing that if such very long allowances of time were necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving his addresses before the young man's inclination for paying them were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit and hope for the best.
The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of what she said, she was an object of painful alarm. The dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.
She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when Miss Crawford did come; and Fanny hoped there would be nothing worse to be endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she hoped too much; Miss Crawford was determined to see Fanny alone, and said to her, in a low voice, "I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere"; words that Fanny felt all over her. Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made her instantly rise and lead the way out of the room.
They were no sooner in the hall than Miss Crawford shook her head at Fanny with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and took her hand: she said nothing, however, but, "Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you."
Fanny turned upstairs, and took her guest to the East Room, opening the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling that she had a distressing scene before her. But the evil was delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on her mind which the finding herself in the East room again produced.
"Ha!" she cried, "am I here again? Once only was I in this room before"; and after stopping to look about her, "Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin came too; and you were our audience and prompter. A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?"
Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely self-engrossed, in a reverie of sweet remembrances.
"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of it so very-very-what shall I say? He was recommending matrimony to me, trying to be as demure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches. 'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a happy life.' I can never forget his looks and voice as he said those words. If I could relive any one week of my existence, it should be that week; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His sturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But alas, that very evening destroyed it all, and brought your most unwelcome uncle. Yet, Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas, though I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice now. He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I now love you all." And with a degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a moment to recover herself.
"I have had a little fit since I came into this room, as you may perceive," said she presently, with a playful smile, "but it is over; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to scolding you, Fanny, I have not the heart for it when it comes to the point." And embracing her affectionately, "Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the last time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything but love you."
Fanny had not foreseen this, and her feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word "last." She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she possibly could; and Miss Crawford, farther softened by the sight of such emotion, said, "I hate to leave you. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we shall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to be connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear Fanny."
Fanny roused herself, and said, "But you are going to a very particular friend."
"Very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But I have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of the friends I am leaving. You have all so much more heart among you than one finds in the world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to trust and confide in you. I wish I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go till after Easter, but now I cannot put her off. And then I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because she was my most particular friend of the two, but I have not cared much for her these three years."
After this speech the two girls sat silent, before Mary spoke again.
"How perfectly I remember resolving to look for you upstairs, and setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea whereabouts it was! How well I remember looking in and seeing you sitting at work; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the door, at seeing me here! There never was anything quite like it."
Another short fit of abstraction followed; then she thus attacked her companion.
"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one who is always thinking of you. Oh! if only I could transport you into our circle in town, that you might understand how your power over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the incredulity that will be felt at hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry glories in his chains. If you were to see how he is courted in London! I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser when she knows the truth; for she has a step-daughter whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree. Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the curiosity there will be about you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's sake, for I think the Frasers are about as unhappy as most married people. And yet it was a most desirable match for Janet at the time. She had to accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered and demanding, and wants a young woman of five-and-twenty to be as steady as himself. And my friend does not seem to know how to make the best of it. His irritation is certainly very ill-bred. Even Dr. Grant shows a confidence in my sister, and a consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there is attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. Poor Janet has been sadly taken in, and yet she took three days to consider his proposals, and asked everyone's advice. I have not so much to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense as Mr. Rushworth, but is much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character. Flora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I to tell you of all the women who have been in love with him, I should never finish. It is only you, unfeeling Fanny, who can think of him with indifference. But are you so insensible as you profess yourself? No, I see you are not."
There was, indeed, a deep blush over Fanny's face at that moment.
"Excellent creature! I will not tease you. But, dear Fanny, you cannot have been so unprepared as your cousin fancies. You must have had some thoughts on the subject, some surmises. You must have seen that Henry was trying to please you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you at the ball? And the necklace! Oh! you received it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I remember it perfectly."
"Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand? Oh! Miss Crawford, that was not fair."
"Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely. I am ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to act on his proposal."
"I was half afraid at the time of its being so," said Fanny; "but not at first; I was unsuspicious of it at first, indeed. If I had suspected it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your brother's behaviour, I had been aware of a particularity some two or three weeks, but I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being his way. I observed what was passing between him and some of this family in the summer and autumn. I was not blind. I could not help seeing that Mr. Crawford allowed himself gallantries which did mean nothing."
"Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and cared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies' affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault; and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has been shot at by so many! Oh! it is not in woman's nature to refuse such a triumph."
Fanny shook her head. "I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of."
"I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you."
Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.
"He was never happier," continued Mary, "than when he succeeded in getting your brother's commission."
She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.
"Oh! yes. How very kind of him."
"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for the Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours. What a happy creature William must be!"
Poor Fanny's mind was distressed. The recollection of what had been done for William was always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply till Mary said: "I should like to sit here talking to you all day, but we must not forget the ladies below: so good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, trusting that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each other without any shadow of reserve."
A very kind embrace accompanied these words.
"I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is, that you must write to me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."
The first of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, she was grateful to her for having made their tte--tte so much less painful than she had feared.
It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own.
In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her heart was softened towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman.
When it came to the moment of parting, he took her hand; he said nothing, however, and left the room.
On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.


How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart was suggesting, "What will become of us? what is to be done now?" It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.
Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand, her wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had been white before, she turned out of the room, saying, "_I_ need not be afraid of appearing before him."
Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest support. Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination, and was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, "Shall I go too? Had not I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?" but they were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with delighted haste.
Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on Sir Thomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even innocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her former habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it compassion for him and for almost every one of the party on the development before him, with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer under any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or were still in Antigua.
The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better understanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that must ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt the total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr. Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the evening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over, and he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking quietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage. But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much of parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive that anything of the kind was necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, "he preferred remaining where he was, that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away."
Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was settled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister's apology, saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.
Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after pausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in desperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected family, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear. Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, "But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?"-and on perceiving her, came forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her, calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so kind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light and looked at her again-inquired particularly after her health, and then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next after her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling was increased, and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst on him.
Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion now seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own house, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to give every information as to his voyage, and answer every question of his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool, having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures, were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him-interrupting himself more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them all at home-coming unexpectedly as he did-all collected together exactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in the objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking him already.
By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken, unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years. She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time had been irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great deal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have answered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see him again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly to feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it would have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.
Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her sister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas's disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for her judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive caution with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew any sign of alarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It had left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room, and seeing him first, and having to spread the happy news through the house, Sir Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but the butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded; and was now trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity and silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea came-he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something different; and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England, when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height, she burst through his recital with the proposal of soup. "Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of soup."
Sir Thomas could not be provoked. "Still the same anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris," was his answer. "But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea."
"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night." She carried this point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.
At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not long: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, "How do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting."
"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"
"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."
"The _all_ will soon be told," cried Tom hastily, and with affected unconcern; "but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now. You will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting anything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between us, and might each have killed six times as many, but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire. I do not think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than they were. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life as this year. I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir, soon."
For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick feelings subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up, said that he found that he could not be any longer in the house without just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was returning. He was gone before anything had been said to prepare him for the change he must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance. Edmund was the first to speak-
"Something must be done," said he.
"It is time to think of our visitors," said Maria, still feeling her hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring little for anything else. "Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?"
Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.
"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. "I will go and fetch him. He will be no bad assistant when it all comes out."
To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the first meeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from before the billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had scarcely more than time to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did not know the voice-more than talking-almost hallooing. He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that moment in having the means of immediate communication, and, opening it, found himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered at the other end of the room; and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his countenance. His father's looks of solemnity and amazement on this his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have lost upon any account. It would be the last-in all probability-the last scene on that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer. The house would close with the greatest eclat.
There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of merriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which was due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased with the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its commencement. Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known to him to render his introduction as the "particular friend," another of the hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it needed all the felicity of being again at home, and all the forbearance it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving, and whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the first five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.
Tom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be always as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to see, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be some ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few words of calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not lost on all.
"I come from your theatre," said he composedly, as he sat down; "I found myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room-but in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit." And then he would have changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir Thomas's meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to allow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks relative to it, and finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates's habits of thinking, from the beginning to the end of the story; and when it was over, could give him no other assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.
"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting," said Tom, after a moment's thought. "My friend Yates brought the infection from Ecclesford, and it spread-as those things always spread, you know, sir-the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again."
Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were doing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy conclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of affairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his friends as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the face on which his own eyes were fixed-from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind her aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all that was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's look implied, "On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to utter, "Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!"
Mr. Yates was still talking. "To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the honour of your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result. We bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak your indulgence."
"My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir Thomas gravely, "but without any other rehearsal." And with a relenting smile, he added, "I come home to be happy and indulgent." Then turning away towards any or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr. and Miss Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?"
Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely without particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love or acting, could speak very handsomely of both. "Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl."
Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. "I do not say he is not gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man."
Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise at the speaker.
"If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing."
Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, "I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such weight."
Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards preserving that good opinion a little longer.

How is the consternation of the party to be described? To most it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! After the first exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was looking at some other, and feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed! Mr. Yates might consider it only as an interruption, and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under self-condemnation or undefined alarm. It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the sounds of opening doors and footsteps.
Julia was the first to move and speak again. At the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with devoted looks to Agatha, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon as Julia noticed this, and saw that he still retained her sister's hand, her wounded heart swelled again with injury. She left the room, saying, "I need not be afraid of appearing before him."
Her going roused the rest. The two brothers stepped forward, and agreed they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest support. Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment was worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed it as a sign of the most serious intent, and was equal even to encounter her father.
They walked off, heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, "Shall I go too? Had not I better go too?" Henry Crawford answered the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, sent him after the others with delighted haste.
Fanny was left with the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite overlooked; and as her own opinion of her claim on Sir Thomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind. Her agitation was excessive. She was nearly fainting: all her habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it, compassion for him and for the others, with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She sat, trembling, while the other three were giving vent to their feelings, lamenting over such an unlooked-for arrival, and wishing Sir Thomas were still in Antigua.
The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better understanding the family. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: while Mr. Yates considered it only as an interruption for the evening, and suggested the possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea. The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and invited Mr. Yates to spend the evening with them at the Parsonage. But Mr. Yates, thanking them, said, "he preferred remaining, that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman; and besides, he did not think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away."
Fanny was commissioned with the Crawfords' apology, and went to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.
Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door. After pausing a moment for a courage which the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in desperation, and the collected family were before her. Her own name caught her ear. Sir Thomas was looking round, and saying, "Why do not I see my little Fanny?"-and on perceiving her, came forward with a kindness which astonished her, calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing with pleasure how much she was grown!
Fanny knew not how to feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his voice was joyful; and his awful dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light and looked at her again-inquired after her health, and then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point.
He inquired next after her family, especially William: and his kindness made her reproach herself for loving him so little. When, on having courage to lift her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and looked worn and fatigued, every tender feeling was increased, and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected vexation was ready to burst on him.
Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party. His delight in being in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him unusually communicative and chatty; and he was ready to answer every question of his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had prospered, and he came directly from Liverpool, having had an opportunity of making his passage in a private vessel, instead of waiting for the packet.
As he sat by Lady Bertram, he looked with heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him-interrupting himself more than once, to remark on his good fortune in finding them all at home-all collected together exactly as he could have wished. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten: a most friendly warmth of hand-shaking had already met him. There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking him already.
By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to make her almost fluttered for a few minutes. She put away her work, moved Pug from her side, and gave all her attention to her husband. It was so agreeable to see him again, that she began to feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it would have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.
Mrs. Norris was not as happy as her sister. Not that she feared Sir Thomas's disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for her judgment had been so blinded that she had no alarm; but she was vexed by the manner of his return. It had left her nothing to do. Instead of her seeing him first, and spreading the happy news through the house, Sir Thomas had sought no confidant but the butler. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which she had depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded; and was now trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about, and when nothing was wanted but tranquillity and silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with troublesome directions; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner: he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something; and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England, when the alarm of a French privateer was at its height, she burst through his recital with the proposal of soup.
Sir Thomas could not be provoked. "Still the same anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris," was his answer. "But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea."
"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you order tea directly." This done, Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.
At length there was a pause. In her elation Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, "How do you think the young people have been amusing themselves, Sir Thomas? They have been acting."
"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"
"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."
"The all will soon be told," cried Tom hastily; "but we will not bore my father with it now. You will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way of amusing my mother, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains since October began, that we have been confined to the house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting anything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between us, and might have killed six times as many, but we respect your pheasants, sir, as much as you could desire. I never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants as this year. I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir, soon."
For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick feelings subsided; but when tea was brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up, said that he would just look into his own dear room, every agitation returned. He was gone before anything had been said to prepare him for the change he must find; and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance.
"Something must be done," said Edmund.
"We must think of our visitors," said Maria, still feeling her hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart. "Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?"
Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.
"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. "I will go and fetch him."
To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the first meeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it, to see a general air of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from before the billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had scarcely time to feel astonished, before there were sounds from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some one was talking there loudly; he did not know the voice.
He stepped to the door, and, opening it, found himself on the stage of a theatre, opposite a ranting young man, who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered; and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his countenance. The gradual metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such a piece of true acting as he would not have lost upon any account. It would probably be the last scene on that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer.
It was necessary for him to step forward and assist the introduction, and with awkward sensations he did his best. Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates with the appearance of cordiality, but was really far from pleased with the acquaintance. Mr. Yates's family were sufficiently known to him to render his introduction as the "particular friend" exceedingly unwelcome; and it needed all the joy of being at home to save Sir Thomas from anger.
Tom understood his father's thoughts, and began to see, more clearly than he had done before, that there might be some ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance his father gave towards the ceiling; and that when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. The three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not lost on all.
"I come from your theatre," said he composedly, as he sat down; "It took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It appears a neat job, however, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit." And then he would have changed the subject; but Mr. Yates, without discernment or discretion, would keep him on the topic of the theatre, would torment him with remarks about it, and finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates.
"This was, in fact, the origin of our acting," said Tom. "My friend Yates brought the infection from Ecclesford, and it spread-as those things always spread, you know, sir-the faster, probably, from your having encouraged the sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground."
Mr. Yates immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they were doing: told him of the happy conclusion of their first difficulties, and present state of affairs; blind to the uneasy movements of his friends, the fidget, the hem! of unquietness, and even to the expression of the face on which his own eyes were fixed. Sir Thomas's dark brow contracted as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter with reproof.
Fanny, screened from notice herself, saw all that was passing. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any way deserved was terrible indeed.
Mr. Yates was still talking. "To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived. Nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the honour of your company to-morrow, I should not be afraid of the result. We ask your indulgence as young performers."
"My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir Thomas gravely, "but without any other rehearsal." And with a relenting smile, he added, "I come home to be happy and indulgent. Mr. and Miss Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?"
Tom was the only one ready with an answer. "Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl."
Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. "You should tell your father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man."
Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise at the speaker.
Mr. Rushworth continued. "In my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. I think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing."
Sir Thomas replied with an approving smile, "I am happy to find our sentiments so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should feel scruples which my children do not feel, is perfectly natural; and equally my love of domestic tranquillity should exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself; and I am glad to have an ally of such weight."
Sir Thomas was aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him very highly. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards preserving that good opinion a little longer.


"Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed, Never to be disquieted! My last Good Night--thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake." DR. KING.
Home seemed unnaturally quiet after all this terror and noisy commotion. Her father had seen all due preparation made for her refreshment on her return; and then sate down again in his accustomed chair, to fall into one of his sad waking dreams. Dixon had got Mary Higgins to scold and direct in the kitchen; and her scolding was not the less energetic because it was delivered in an angry whisper; for, speaking above her breath she would have thought irreverent, as long as there was any one lying dead in the house. Margaret had resolved not to mention the crowning and closing affright to her father. There was no use in speaking about it; it had ended well; the only thing to be feared was lest Leonards should in some way borrow money enough to effect his purpose of following Frederick to London, and hunting him out there. But there were immense chances against the success of any such plan; and Margaret determined not to torment herself by thinking of what she could do nothing to prevent. Frederick would be as much on his guard as she could put him; and in a day or two at most he would be safely out of England.
"I suppose we shall hear from Mr. Bell to-morrow," said Margaret.
"Yes," replied her father. "I suppose so."
"If he can come, he will be here to-morrow evening, I should think."
"If he cannot come, I shall ask Mr. Thornton to go with me to the funeral. I cannot go alone. I should break down utterly."
"Don't ask Mr. Thornton, papa. Let me go with you," said Margaret, impetuously.
"You! My dear, women do not generally go."
"No; because they can't control themselves. Women of our class don't go, because they have no power over their emotions, and yet are ashamed of showing them. Poor women go, and don't care if they are seen overwhelmed with grief. But I promise you, papa, that if you will let me go, I will be no trouble. Don't have a stranger, and leave me out. Dear papa! if Mr. Bell cannot come, I shall go. I won't urge my wish against your will, if he does."
Mr. Bell could not come. He had the gout. It was a most affectionate letter, and expressed great and true regret for his inability to attend. He hoped to come and pay them a visit soon, if they would have him; his Milton property required some looking after, and his agent had written to him to say that his presence was absolutely necessary; or else he had avoided coming near Milton as long as he could, and now the only thing that would reconcile him to this necessary visit was the idea that he should see, and might possibly be able to comfort his old friend.
Margaret had all the difficulty in the world to persuade her father not to invite Mr. Thornton. She had an indescribable repugnance to this step being taken. The night before the funeral, came a stately note from Mrs. Thornton to Miss Hale, saying that, at her son's desire, their carriage should attend the funeral, if it would not be disagreeable to the family. Margaret tossed the note to her father.
"Oh, don't let us have these forms," said she. "Let us go alone--you and me, papa. They don't care for us, or else he would have offered to go himself, and not have proposed this sending an empty carriage."
"I thought you were so extremely averse to his going, Margaret," said Mr. Hale in some surprise.
"And so I am. I don't want him to come at all; and I should especially dislike the idea of our asking him. But this seems such a mockery of mourning that I did not expect it from him." She startled her father by bursting into tears. She had been so subdued in her grief, so thoughtful for others, so gentle and patient in all things, that he could not understand her impatient ways to-night; she seemed agitated and restless; and at all the tenderness which her father in his turn now lavished upon her, she only cried the more.
She passed so bad a night that she was ill prepared for the additional anxiety caused by a letter received from Frederick. Mr. Lennox was out of town; his clerk said that he would return by the following Tuesday at the latest; that he might possibly be home on Monday. Consequently, after some consideration, Frederick had determined upon remaining in London a day or two longer. He had thought of coming down to Milton again; the temptation had been very strong; but the idea of Mr. Bell domesticated in his father's house, and the alarm he had received at the last moment at the railway station, had made him resolve to stay in London. Margaret might be assured he would take every precaution against being tracked by Leonards. Margaret was thankful that she received this letter while her father was absent in her mother's room. If he had been present, he would have expected her to read it aloud to him, and it would have raised in him a state of nervous alarm which she would have found it impossible to soothe away. There was not merely the fact, which disturbed her excessively, of Frederick's detention in London, but there were allusions to the recognition at the last moment at Milton, and the possibility of a pursuit, which made her blood run cold; and how then would it have affected her father? Many a time did Margaret repent of having suggested and urged on the plan of consulting Mr. Lennox. At the moment, it had seemed as if it would occasion so little delay--add so little to the apparently small chances of detection; and yet everything that had since occurred had tended to make it so undesirable. Margaret battled hard against this regret of hers for what could not now be helped; this self-reproach for having said what at the time appeared to be wise, but which after events were proving to have been so foolish. But her father was in too depressed a state of mind and body to struggle healthily; he would succumb to all these causes for morbid regret over what could not be recalled. Margaret summoned up all her forces to her aid. Her father seemed to have forgotten that they had any reason to expect a letter from Frederick that morning. He was absorbed in one idea--that the last visible token of the presence of his wife was to be carried away from him, and hidden from his sight. He trembled pitifully as the undertaker's man was arranging his crape draperies around him. He looked wistfully at Margaret; and, when released, he tottered towards her, murmuring, "Pray for me, Margaret. I have no strength left in me. I cannot pray. I give her up because I must. I try to bear it: indeed I do. I know it is God's will. But I cannot see why she died. Pray for me, Margaret, that I may have faith to pray. It is a great strait, my child."
Margaret sat by him in the coach, almost supporting him in her arms; and repeating all the noble verses of holy comfort, or texts expressive of faithful resignation, that she could remember. Her voice never faltered; and she herself gained strength by doing this. Her father's lips moved after her, repeating the well-known texts as her words suggested them; it was terrible to see the patient struggling effort to obtain the resignation which he had not strength to take into his heart as part of himself.
Margaret's fortitude nearly gave way as Dixon, with a slight motion of her hand, directed her notice to Nicholas Higgins and his daughter, standing a little aloof, but deeply attentive to the ceremonial. Nicholas wore his usual fustian clothes, but had a bit of black stuff sown round his hat--a mark of mourning which he had never shown to his daughter Bessy's memory. But Mr. Hale saw nothing. He went on repeating to himself, mechanically as it were, all the funeral service as it was read by the officiating clergyman; he sighed twice or thrice when all was ended; and then, putting his hand on Margaret's arm, he mutely entreated to be led away, as if he were blind, and she his faithful guide.
Dixon sobbed aloud; she covered her face with her handkerchief, and was so absorbed in her own grief that she did not perceive that the crowd, attracted on such occasions, was dispersing, till she was spoken to by some one close at hand. It was Mr. Thornton. He had been present all the time, standing, with bent head, behind a group of people, so that, in fact, no one had recognised him.
"I beg your pardon,--but, can you tell me how Mr. Hale is? And Miss Hale, too? I should like to know how they both are."
"Of course, sir. They are much as is to be expected. Master is terribly broke down. Miss Hale bears up better than likely."
Mr. Thornton would rather have heard that she was suffering the natural sorrow. In the first place, there was selfishness enough in him to have taken pleasure in the idea that his great love might come in to comfort and console her; much the same kind of passionate pleasure which comes stinging through a mother's heart, when her drooping infant nestles close to her, and is dependent upon her for everything. But this delicious vision of what might have been--in which, in spite of all Margaret's repulse, he would have indulged only a few days ago--was miserably disturbed by the recollection of what he had seen near the Outwood station. "Miserably disturbed!" that is not strong enough. He was haunted by the remembrance of the handsome young man, with whom she stood in an attitude of such familiar confidence; and the remembrance shot through him like an agony, till it made him clench his hands tight in order to subdue the pain. At that late hour, so far from home! It took a great moral effort to galvanise his trust--erewhile so perfect--in Margaret's pure and exquisite maidenliness into life; as soon as the effort ceased, his trust dropped down dead and powerless: and all sorts of wild fancies chased each other like dreams, through his mind. Here was a little bit of miserable, gnawing confirmation. "She bore up better than likely" under this grief. She had then some hope to look to, so bright that even in her affectionate nature it could come in to lighten the dark hours of a daughter newly made motherless. Yes! he knew how she would love. He had not loved her without gaining that instinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her soul would walk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy, by his power of loving, to win back her love. Even in her mourning she would rest with a peaceful faith upon his sympathy. His sympathy! Whose? That other man's. And that it was another was enough to make Mr. Thornton's pale grave face grow doubly wan and stern at Dixon's answer.
"I suppose I may call," said he coldly. "On Mr. Hale, I mean. He will perhaps admit me after to-morrow or so."
He spoke as if the answer were a matter of indifference to him. But it was not so. For all his pain, he longed to see the author of it. Although he hated Margaret at times, when he thought of that gentle, familiar attitude and all the attendant circumstances, he had a restless desire to renew her picture in his mind--a longing for the very atmosphere she breathed. He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must perforce circle and circle ever nearer round the fatal centre.
"I dare say, sir, master will see you. He was very sorry to have to deny you the other day; but circumstances was not agreeable just then."
For some reason or other, Dixon never named this interview that she had had with Mr. Thornton to Margaret. It might have been mere chance, but so it was that Margaret never heard that he had attended her poor mother's funeral.

Home seemed unnaturally quiet after all this terror and noise. Her father sat in his usual chair, in one of his sad waking dreams. In the kitchen, Dixon was scolding Mary Higgins in an energetic, angry whisper, in deference to the dead one lying in the house.
Margaret had resolved not to mention her fright to her father. There was no use in speaking about it; it had ended well; the only thing to be feared was lest Leonards should manage to follow Frederick to London, and hunt him out there. But that was unlikely; and Margaret determined not to torment herself by thinking of what she could not prevent. Frederick would be on his guard; and in a day or two he would be safely out of England.
'I suppose we shall hear from Mr. Bell tomorrow,' she said to her father. 'He may be here tomorrow evening.'
'If he cannot come, I shall ask Mr. Thornton to go with me to the funeral. I cannot go alone. I should break down.'
'Don't ask Mr. Thornton, papa. Let me go with you,' said Margaret, impetuously.
'You! My dear, women do not generally go.'
'No: women of our class don't go, because they have no control over their emotions, and yet are ashamed of showing them. Poor women go, and don't care if they are seen overwhelmed with grief. But I promise you, papa, I will be no trouble. Don't have a stranger, and leave me out. Dear papa! if Mr. Bell cannot come, I shall go.'
Mr. Bell could not come. He had the gout. It was a most affectionate and regretful letter. He hoped to pay them a visit soon; his agent had told him that he needed to attend to his Milton property; otherwise he avoided coming near Milton, and now the only thing that would reconcile him to this necessary visit was the idea that he could see and comfort his old friend.
Margaret had great difficulty in persuading her father not to invite Mr. Thornton. She had an indescribable repugnance to this step being taken. The night before the funeral, a stately note came from Mrs. Thornton, saying that, at her son's desire, their carriage should attend the funeral, if it was not disagreeable to the family. Margaret tossed the note to her father.
'Oh, don't let us have these formalities,' said she. 'Let us go alone - you and me, papa. They don't care for us, or else he would have offered to go himself, and not have proposed sending an empty carriage.'
'I thought you were averse to his going, Margaret,' said Mr. Hale in some surprise.
'And so I am. I don't want him to come at all. But this seems such a mockery of mourning that I did not expect it from him.' She startled her father by bursting into tears. She had been so subdued in her grief, so thoughtful and patient, that he could not understand her. She seemed agitated and restless; and at her father's tenderness, she only cried the more.
She passed so bad a night that she was ill prepared for the additional anxiety caused by a letter from Frederick. Mr. Lennox was out of town; his clerk said that he would return by the following Tuesday at the latest. Therefore Frederick had decided to stay in London a day or two longer. Margaret might be assured that after their alarm at the railway station, he would take every precaution against being tracked by Leonards.
Margaret was thankful that she received this letter while her father was absent. If he had been present, he would have expected her to read it aloud to him, and it would have worried him greatly. There was not merely the fact of Frederick's delay in London, but allusions to the recognition at Milton, and the possibility of a pursuit, which made her blood run cold; how then would it have affected her father? Many a time did Margaret repent of having urged the plan of consulting Mr. Lennox. At the time, it had seemed as if it would cause so little delay - and now it seemed so undesirable.
Her father had forgotten that they had any reason to expect a letter from Frederick that morning. He was absorbed only in the coming funeral, and the final removal of his wife from his sight. He trembled pitifully as the undertaker's man was arranging his crape draperies around him.
'Pray for me, Margaret,' he murmured. 'I have no strength left. I cannot pray. I try to bear it: indeed I do. I know it is God's will. But I cannot see why she died.'
Margaret sat by him in the coach, almost supporting him in her arms; and repeating all the noble verses of holy comfort that she could remember. Her voice never faltered; and she herself gained strength by doing this. Her father's lips moved after her, repeating the well-known texts; it was terrible to see his patient struggle for resignation.
At the church, Margaret's fortitude nearly gave way when she noticed Nicholas Higgins and his daughter, standing a little aloof. Nicholas wore his usual fustian clothes, but had a bit of black stuff sewn round his hat - a mark of mourning which he had never shown to his daughter Bessy's memory. But Mr. Hale saw nothing. He went on mechanically repeating to himself all the funeral service as it was read by the clergyman; he sighed when all was ended; and then, putting his hand on Margaret's arm, he mutely entreated to be led away, as if he were blind.
Dixon sobbed aloud; she covered her face with her handkerchief, and did not perceive that the crowd was dispersing, till she was spoken to by someone close at hand. It was Mr. Thornton. He had been present all the time, standing with bent head behind a group of people, so that no one had seen him.
'I beg your pardon - but can you tell me how Mr. Hale is? And Miss Hale, too?'
'Of course, sir. They are much as is to be expected. Master is terribly broke down. Miss Hale bears up better than likely.'
Mr. Thornton would rather have heard that she was suffering natural sorrow. In the first place, there was selfishness enough in him to have taken pleasure in the idea that his great love might come in to comfort and console her; much the same kind of strange passionate pleasure which stings a mother's heart when her drooping infant nestles close to her. But this delicious vision of what might have been was miserably disturbed by the recollection of what he had seen near the Outwood station.
Miserably disturbed! That is not strong enough. He was haunted by the remembrance of the handsome young man, with whom she stood in such a familiar attitude; and the remembrance shot through him like an agony, till it made him clench his hands tight to subdue the pain. So late, so far from home!
It took a great moral effort to rouse his trust in Margaret's pure maidenliness; as soon as the effort ceased, his trust dropped down dead: and wild fancies chased each other like dreams through his mind. Here was a little piece of miserable, gnawing confirmation. 'She bore up better than likely.' She had then some hope to look to, so bright that it could lighten the dark hours of a daughter newly made motherless.
Yes! he knew how she would love. He had not loved her without gaining that instinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her soul would walk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy to win back her love. Even in her mourning she would rest with a peaceful faith upon his sympathy. His sympathy! Whose? That other man's. And Mr. Thornton's pale grave face grow doubly wan and stern at Dixon's answer.
'I suppose I may call,' said he coldly. 'On Mr. Hale, I mean.'
He spoke as if it were a matter of indifference to him. But it was not so. For all his pain, he longed to see the author of it. Although he hated Margaret at times, he had a restless desire to renew her picture in his mind - a longing for the very atmosphere she breathed.
'I dare say, sir, master will see you.'
For some reason or other, Dixon never mentioned this interview with Mr. Thornton to Margaret. It might have been mere chance, but so it was that Margaret never heard that he had attended her poor mother's funeral.