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 feel his motives to deserve. He was anxious to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one whose conduct he could mention without necessity of defence.
"We have all been to blame," said he, "excepting Fanny. Fanny has judged rightly throughout. 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 the scheme as strongly as his son had supposed. Having shaken hands with Edmund, he meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression as soon as the house had been restored to its proper state. He did not remonstrate with his other children: he was willing to believe they felt their error.
There was one person, however, to whom he must speak. He hinted to Mrs. Norris that he hoped she might have advised the young people against the play. They ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, of unsteady characters. He was greatly surprised at her allowing their unsafe amusements.
Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as close to being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to confess to having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas. Her only resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible. She had a great deal to say in her own praise as to her exertion and many sacrifices and economies, whereby a considerable saving had arisen.
But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest glory was in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. There she was impregnable. She took all the credit. "If I had not been active," said she, "and prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is a modest young man who wants encouragement. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister. 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 your influence is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have been on the occasion of the play."
"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads that day! I thought we should never have got through, though we had the four horses; and poor old coachman would attend us, though he was hardly able to sit 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 I said to him, 'Coachman, you had much better not go.' But he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be 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, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor horses too! You know how I always feel for the horses. 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 his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family party to the bustle of acting."
"Yes, indeed. 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, foiled by her evasions and disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged to be satisfied with the conviction that her kindness sometimes overpowered her judgment.
It was a busy morning for him. He had to reinstate himself in all the concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to visit his stables, gardens and plantations; but, active and methodical, he had not only done all this before dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in pulling down the theatre. The scene-painter was gone, having only spoilt the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas hoped that another day or two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been, even to the destruction of every 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. He and his friend had been out with their guns, and Tom had explained what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it acutely. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was severe ill-luck; and 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.
He believed this very stoutly all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat round the table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, but never had he seen one so tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates meant to stay a few days longer under his roof.
The evening passed with external smoothness, though 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 go by without seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole day, and was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate declaration as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram.
It was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow brought more evil for Maria. 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, and they were ushered into the breakfast-room.
Sir Thomas 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 ask Tom in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play, 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 to meet his uncle at Bath; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself engaged, and break through every other claim.
"From Bath, Norfolk, London, wherever I may be," said he; "I will attend you at an hour's notice."
Tom said, "I am sorry you are going; but our play is entirely at an end. The painter was sent off yesterday, and little will remain of the theatre tomorrow. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there."
"It is 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 was under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, prepared herself with tolerable calmness.
To her he soon turned, repeating 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 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! hand and heart were alike motionless and passive now!
Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to bury the tumult of her feelings; for the farewell visit was a very short one. He was gone—he had touched her hand for the last time. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and 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. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.
With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the news. She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned with regret; Mrs. Norris began to wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing.
Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his goodbyes to Mr. Yates were given with genuine satisfaction. Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of the house, to be rid of the worst object connected with the theatrical scheme, and now the theatre was dismantled, the last that must be 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 success, went off with her to her cottage, where she happened to be particularly in want of green baize.
CHAPTER 21