The morrow did not vanquish the 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. At a rather 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, to meet his uncle at Bath. But if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers’ Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged here.

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, making it clear to Henry that the play was all over and done with. They then proceeded to discuss Bath at this time of the year, and the stables there, where Tom claimed he had seen a remarkable creature, half-horse, half-goat, for only £250. . . .

Soon Henry turned to Maria, repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But he was going, and voluntarily. For, except what might be due 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! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe.

She had not long to endure listening to words which his actions contradicted. He was gone—he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow. Henry Crawford was 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. With 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. The others mentioned it with varied degrees of regret—from the sincerity of Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote as she declaimed something poetic, ancient, and once encoded in hieroglyphics to Lord Eastwind. Mrs. Norris wondered how was it that Mr. Crawford and Julia had come to nothing.