Mr. Rushworth came to himself. He cleared his throat, looked about him in stunned amazement for a moment, adjusted his tattered coat and loosely torn, decidedly uncivil breeches, and then said, “Argh! Blimey! That is—Ahem! pardon me, Mrs. Norris, what am I doing here? What happened? I do not remember having arrived here, indeed, last night seems to be all a blur—there was a blimey-bright moon, and that infernal flying fowl—”

“Oh, it must be the drink—that horrid negus was too strong! I told Lady Bertram, I did, it was just too potent, I said, but no—” muttered Mrs. Norris, beginning to fuss and get up. Then she saw her own somewhat uncivil condition of dress, and yelped in alarm. Hurriedly she excused herself and, covered in the roomy shawl, backed out of the parlor, to the accompaniment of some rather amazed and scandalized glares of the housekeeper.

Of all of this Sir Thomas was informed. And as he sat later at breakfast, his mind going over the various incurred monetary damages in the ballroom and elsewhere—for any thought of mummies was somewhat beyond him right this moment—he thought that a scandalous incident between Mrs. Norris and Mr. Rushworth was the last thing the family needed. And, for shame! Mrs. Norris, who would have thought something like that of her—a widow, too! and at her age! And with his daughter’s husband! Surely it was all a misunderstanding (he had no doubt whatsoever); but oh! how much it held the appearance of impropriety! Furthermore, there was once again that duck, somewhere on the premises. . . . Sir Thomas never thought he would have himself think such murderous thoughts, but something had to be done—

And Mr. Rushworth—supposedly too chagrined to present himself before his father-in-law that day, he got himself out of Mansfield Park in a hurry, borrowing a horse from the stables.

Unable to think any farther, Sir Thomas concentrated upon easier concerns.

At last, breakfast was over, the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, thought Fanny, and short and pleasant had been the meal, with hardly a mention of anything disastrous from last night.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy change. And there, her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in William’s plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford’s. She sat and cried con amore as her uncle intended, but it was con amore fraternal and no other. William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.