الفصل الفصل 20 · Chapter XX

Edmund’s first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and

give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own

share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his

motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that

his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his

judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating

himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one

amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of

defence or palliation. “We have all been more or less to blame,” said

he, “every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has

judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have

been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think

of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish.”

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,

and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must;

he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands

with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and

forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could,

after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the

remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into

any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to

believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation.

The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of

every preparation, would be sufficient.

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to

learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help

giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might

have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have

disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming

the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision

themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of

unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must

regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of

their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements

should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as

nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was

ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was

so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her

influence was insufficient—that she might have talked in vain. Her only

resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn

the current of Sir Thomas’s ideas into a happier channel. She had a

great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to

the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many

sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden

removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust

and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most

considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant

been detected. But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest

support and glory was in having formed the connexion with the

Rushworths. _There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all the

credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth’s admiration of Maria to any effect.

“If I had not been active,” said she, “and made a point of being

introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the

first visit, I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have come

of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who

wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the

catch for him if we had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was

ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did

persuade her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle

of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her.”

“I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady

Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not

have been—”

“My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!

I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four

horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his

great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on

account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since

Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter—and

this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room

before we set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his

wig; so I said, ‘Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I

shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has

been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.’

But, however, I soon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and

as I hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart

quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes

about Stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it

was worse than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about

him. And then the poor horses too! To see them straining away! You know

how I always feel for the horses. And when we got to the bottom of

Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh at me; but I

got out and walked up. I did indeed. It might not be saving them much,

but it was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease and be

dragged up at the expense of those noble animals. I caught a dreadful

cold, but _that_ I did not regard. My object was accomplished in the

visit.”

“I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that

might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.

Rushworth’s manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to

be his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family

party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly

as one could wish.”

“Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like

him. He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good

qualities; and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite

laughed at about it, for everybody considers it as my doing. ‘Upon my

word, Mrs. Norris,’ said Mrs. Grant the other day, ‘if Mr. Rushworth

were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater

respect.’”

Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her

flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that

where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her

kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment.

It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied

but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted

concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to

examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into

his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and

methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as

master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in

pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room, and

given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the

pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.

The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,

ruined all the coachman’s sponges, and made five of the under-servants

idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or

two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,

even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers’ Vows in the

house, for he was burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas’s intentions,

though as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his

friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom

had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his

father’s particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as

acutely as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the

same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation

was such, that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his

friend’s youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the

baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a

little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in

Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir

Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think

it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it

without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and

often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never,

in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so

unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was

not a man to be endured but for his children’s sake, and he might be

thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay

a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind

was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his

daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a

good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that

Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was

disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance

that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and

all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set

off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped

for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble

of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,

not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of

congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the

first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly

divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August

began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a

sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,

did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were

followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the

house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects

to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the

breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon

appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of

the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and

so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who

had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice

whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present

happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in

that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time

required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his

uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a

renewal of Lovers’ Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he

should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition

with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play

should not be lost by _his_ absence.

“From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,” said he; “I will

attend you from any place in England, at an hour’s notice.”

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister.

He could immediately say with easy fluency, “I am sorry you are going;

but as to our play, _that_ is all over—entirely at an end” (looking

significantly at his father). “The painter was sent off yesterday, and

very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_

would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody

there.”

“It is about my uncle’s usual time.”

“When do you think of going?”

“I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.”

“Whose stables do you use at Bath?” was the next question; and while

this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted

neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of

it with tolerable calmness.

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with

only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what

availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not

voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting

what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.

He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand

which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were

alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the

agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose

from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury

the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general

civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as

it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was

gone—he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting

bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her.

Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours

afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish

vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be

odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to

dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added

to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it

at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned

with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling—from

the sincerity of Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern of his

mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,

and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and

could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it;

but with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_

activity to keep pace with her wishes?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure

Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his

family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been

irksome; but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was

every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of

Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been

quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford’s going or staying: but his good

wishes for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him

to the hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had

staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at

Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left

the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas

hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected

with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of

its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might

have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such

talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she

happened to be particularly in want of green baize.