Chapter: 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.

 Everyone is shocked and horrified. If Sir Thomas was expecting a welcome home party, he's in for a bad surprise. Mr. Yates thinks someone is out to get him since this is the second play he's been involved in that's gotten canceled last minute. He's cursed, clearly. The Bertram kids rush out to greet their dad. Maria is thrilled that Henry stayed near her when the news of her dad's return broke and is convinced that Henry will propose soon so she can safely dump Rushworth. Fanny hangs back since she isn't a Bertram kid and since her uncle scares her. The Crawfords decide to make a run for it and Mr. Yates wanders off. Fanny finally goes to see her uncle and discovers that he's actually been asking for her. Sir Thomas seems very different - he's downright joyful and is unusually affectionate with his family. He's super nice to Fanny, which confuses her since he's usually more reserved. Sir Thomas tells everyone about his long-running overseas adventures. He also meets Mr. Rushworth for the first time and thinks that his daughter's suitor is cool. Mrs. Norris is a bit put out by Sir Thomas's arrival since she wasn't given an important role in it. Lady Bertram finally spills the beans about the acting. Sir Thomas seems interested but not really upset. Tom quickly deflects any questions and makes it sound like they've just been reading some plays together, no big deal. He then starts talking about hunting to distract his dad. But then Sir Thomas goes off to look in on his billiard room and his office, which are now Theater Club headquarters. Everyone freaks out. Fanny tells everyone that the Crawfords have left but that Mr. Yates is still there. Tom runs off to intercept his dad but he's too late. Sir Thomas stumbles in on Yates rehearsing by himself. Sir Thomas is civil to Yates but he's obviously displeased by the whole thing. Sir Thomas comes back and announces that he's seen the theater. It's clear that he's not happy. Well, clear to everyone but Mr. Yates, who proceeds to tell Sir Thomas about the Theater Club in great detail. The Bertram kids want to kill him. Sir Thomas glares at his kids during all of this and he's particularly disappointed in Edmund, who was supposed to be the moral one. Sir Thomas then announces he wants to relax after his journey and lets the theater thing drop. He asks about the Crawfords and Mr. Rushworth exclaims that he thinks Henry is not so great. Sir Thomas is confused. Rushworth then explains that he thinks the theater is dumb and tries to link that to why he hates Henry but he's having trouble getting his point out. Sir Thomas jumps in and notes that the there are much better things to be doing than acting. Rushworth is still ok in Sir Thomas's book since he's keeping his mouth shut mostly.

