Mansfield Park
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