Chapter XLIV

by Jane Austen

　　Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone,when the one letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected,was put into Fanny's hands. As she opened, and sawits length, she prepared herself for a minute detailof happiness and a profusion of love and praise towardsthe fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate.These were the contents--"My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not written before.Crawford told me that you were wishing to hear from me,but I found it impossible to write from London,and persuaded myself that you would understand my silence.Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should nothave been wanting, but nothing of that nature was everin my power. I am returned to Mansfield in a less assuredstate that when I left it. My hopes are much weaker.You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of youas Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tellyou enough of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guessat mine. I will not be prevented, however, from making myown communication. Our confidences in you need not clash.I ask no questions. There is something soothing in theidea that we have the same friend, and that whateverunhappy differences of opinion may exist between us,we are united in our love of you. It will be a comfortto me to tell you how things now are, and what are mypresent plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have beenreturned since Saturday. I was three weeks in London,and saw her (for London) very often. I had every attentionfrom the Frasers that could be reasonably expected.I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with mehopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield.It was her manner, however, rather than any unfrequencyof meeting. Had she been different when I did see her,I should have made no complaint, but from the very firstshe was altered: my first reception was so unlikewhat I had hoped, that I had almost resolved on leavingLondon again directly. I need not particularise.You know the weak side of her character, and may imaginethe sentiments and expressions which were torturing me.She was in high spirits, and surrounded by those whowere giving all the support of their own bad senseto her too lively mind. I do not like Mrs. Fraser.She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirelyfrom convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage,places her disappointment not to faults of judgment,or temper, or disproportion of age, but to her being,after all, less affluent than many of her acquaintance,especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway, and is thedetermined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious,provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough. I lookupon her intimacy with those two sisters as the greatestmisfortune of her life and mine. They have been leadingher astray for years. Could she be detached from them!--and sometimes I do not despair of it, for the affectionappears to me principally on their side. They are veryfond of her; but I am sure she does not love them as sheloves you. When I think of her great attachment to you,indeed, and the whole of her judicious, upright conductas a sister, she appears a very different creature,capable of everything noble, and I am ready to blamemyself for a too harsh construction of a playful manner.I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is the only womanin the world whom I could ever think of as a wife.If I did not believe that she had some regard for me,of course I should not say this, but I do believe it.I am convinced that she is not without a decided preference.I have no jealousy of any individual. It is the influenceof the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous of.It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas arenot higher than her own fortune may warrant, but theyare beyond what our incomes united could authorise.There is comfort, however, even here. I could betterbear to lose her because not rich enough, than becauseof my profession. That would only prove her affectionnot equal to sacrifices, which, in fact, I am scarcelyjustified in asking; and, if I am refused, that, I think,will be the honest motive. Her prejudices, I trust,are not so strong as they were. You have my thoughtsexactly as they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they aresometimes contradictory, but it will not be a less faithfulpicture of my mind. Having once begun, it is a pleasureto me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her up.Connected as we already are, and, I hope, are to be,to give up Mary Crawford would be to give up the societyof some of those most dear to me; to banish myself fromthe very houses and friends whom, under any other distress,I should turn to for consolation. The loss of Mary I mustconsider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny.Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope Ishould know how to bear it, and how to endeavour to weakenher hold on my heart, and in the course of a few years--but I am writing nonsense. Were I refused, I must bear it;and till I am, I can never cease to try for her.This is the truth. The only question is _how_? What maybe the likeliest means? I have sometimes thought of goingto London again after Easter, and sometimes resolved ondoing nothing till she returns to Mansfield. Even now,she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June;but June is at a great distance, and I believe I shallwrite to her. I have nearly determined on explainingmyself by letter. To be at an early certainty is amaterial object. My present state is miserably irksome.Considering everything, I think a letter will be decidedlythe best method of explanation. I shall be able to writemuch that I could not say, and shall be giving her timefor reflection before she resolves on her answer,and I am less afraid of the result of reflectionthan of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am.My greatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser,and I at a distance unable to help my own cause.A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation,and where the mind is anything short of perfect decision,an adviser may, in an unlucky moment, lead it to do what itmay afterwards regret. I must think this matter overa little. This long letter, full of my own concerns alone,will be enough to tire even the friendship of a Fanny.The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser's party.I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and hearof him. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughlyknows his own mind, and acts up to his resolutions:an inestimable quality. I could not see him and my eldestsister in the same room without recollecting what youonce told me, and I acknowledge that they did not meetas friends. There was marked coolness on her side.They scarcely spoke. I saw him draw back surprised,and I was sorry that Mrs. Rushworth should resent anyformer supposed slight to Miss Bertram. You will wishto hear my opinion of Maria's degree of comfort as a wife.There is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they geton pretty well together. I dined twice in Wimpole Street,and might have been there oftener, but it is mortifyingto be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia seems to enjoyLondon exceedingly. I had little enjoyment there,but have less here. We are not a lively party. You arevery much wanted. I miss you more than I can express.My mother desires her best love, and hopes to hearfrom you soon. She talks of you almost every hour,and I am sorry to find how many weeks more she is likelyto be without you. My father means to fetch you himself,but it will not be till after Easter, when he hasbusiness in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope,but this must not be a yearly visit. I want you at home,that I may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey.I have little heart for extensive improvements tillI know that it will ever have a mistress. I think Ishall certainly write. It is quite settled that theGrants go to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday.I am glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to be fitfor anybody; but your aunt seems to feel out of luckthat such an article of Mansfield news should fallto my pen instead of hers.--Yours ever, my dearestFanny.""I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for aletter again," was Fanny's secret declaration as shefinished this. "What do they bring but disappointmentand sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bear it?And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!"Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well asshe could, but she was within half a minute of startingthe idea that Sir Thomas was quite unkind, both to her auntand to herself. As for the main subject of the letter,there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She wasalmost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund."There is no good in this delay," said she. "Why is notit settled? He is blinded, and nothing will open his eyes;nothing can, after having had truths before him so longin vain. He will marry her, and be poor and miserable.God grant that her influence do not make him ceaseto be respectable!" She looked over the letter again."'So very fond of me!' 'tis nonsense all. She lovesnobody but herself and her brother. Her friends leadingher astray for years! She is quite as likely to have led_them_ astray. They have all, perhaps, been corruptingone another; but if they are so much fonder of her thanshe is of them, she is the less likely to have been hurt,except by their flattery. 'The only woman in the worldwhom he could ever think of as a wife.' I firmlybelieve it. It is an attachment to govern his whole life.Accepted or refused, his heart is wedded to her for ever.'The loss of Mary I must consider as comprehending the lossof Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you do not know me.The families would never be connected if you did notconnect them! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once.Let there be an end of this suspense. Fix, commit,condemn yourself."Such sensations, however, were too near akin toresentment to be long guiding Fanny's soliloquies.She was soon more softened and sorrowful. His warm regard,his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,touched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody.It was a letter, in short, which she would not but have hadfor the world, and which could never be valued enough.This was the end of it.Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, withouthaving much to say, which will include a large proportionof the female world at least, must feel with Lady Bertramthat she was out of luck in having such a capital piece ofMansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath,occur at a time when she could make no advantage of it,and will admit that it must have been very mortifyingto her to see it fall to the share of her thankless son,and treated as concisely as possible at the end of along letter, instead of having it to spread over the largestpart of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram rathershone in the epistolary line, having early in her marriage,from the want of other employment, and the circumstanceof Sir Thomas's being in Parliament, got into the wayof making and keeping correspondents, and formed forherself a very creditable, common-place, amplifying style,so that a very little matter was enough for her: she couldnot do entirely without any; she must have somethingto write about, even to her niece; and being so soonto lose all the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptomsand Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon herto be deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she could putthem to.There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her.Lady Bertram's hour of good luck came. Within a few daysfrom the receipt of Edmund's letter, Fanny had one fromher aunt, beginning thus--"My Dear Fanny,--I take up my pen to communicate somevery alarming intelligence, which I make no doubt willgive you much concern".This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pento acquaint her with all the particulars of the Grants'intended journey, for the present intelligence was of anature to promise occupation for the pen for many daysto come, being no less than the dangerous illness of hereldest son, of which they had received notice by expressa few hours before.Tom had gone from London with a party of young mento Newmarket, where a neglected fall and a good dealof drinking had brought on a fever; and when the partybroke up, being unable to move, had been left by himselfat the house of one of these young men to the comforts ofsickness and solitude, and the attendance only of servants.Instead of being soon well enough to follow his friends,as he had then hoped, his disorder increased considerably,and it was not long before he thought so ill of himselfas to be as ready as his physician to have a letterdespatched to Mansfield."This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,"observed her ladyship, after giving the substance of it,"has agitated us exceedingly, and we cannot preventourselves from being greatly alarmed and apprehensivefor the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears maybe very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attendinghis brother immediately, but I am happy to add that SirThomas will not leave me on this distressing occasion,as it would be too trying for me. We shall greatly missEdmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope hewill find the poor invalid in a less alarming state thanmight be apprehended, and that he will be able to bringhim to Mansfield shortly, which Sir Thomas proposesshould be done, and thinks best on every account, and Iflatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to bearthe removal without material inconvenience or injury.As I have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny,under these distressing circumstances, I will write againvery soon."Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerablymore warm and genuine than her aunt's style of writing.She felt truly for them all. Tom dangerously ill,Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small partyremaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out everyother care, or almost every other. She could just findselfishness enough to wonder whether Edmund _had_ writtento Miss Crawford before this summons came, but no sentimentdwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate anddisinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did not neglect her:she wrote again and again; they were receiving frequentaccounts from Edmund, and these accounts were as regularlytransmitted to Fanny, in the same diffuse style,and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears,all following and producing each other at haphazard.It was a sort of playing at being frightened.The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not see had littlepower over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortablyabout agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tomwas actually conveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes hadbeheld his altered appearance. Then a letter which shehad been previously preparing for Fanny was finishedin a different style, in the language of real feelingand alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken."He is just come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs;and I am so shocked to see him, that I do not knowwhat to do. I am sure he has been very ill. Poor Tom!I am quite grieved for him, and very much frightened,and so is Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if youwere here to comfort me. But Sir Thomas hopes hewill be better to-morrow, and says we must considerhis journey."The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosomwas not soon over. Tom's extreme impatience to beremoved to Mansfield, and experience those comfortsof home and family which had been little thought of inuninterrupted health, had probably induced his beingconveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on,and for a week he was in a more alarming state than ever.They were all very seriously frightened. Lady Bertramwrote her daily terrors to her niece, who might now be saidto live upon letters, and pass all her time between sufferingfrom that of to-day and looking forward to to-morrow's.Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin,her tenderness of heart made her feel that she couldnot spare him, and the purity of her principles added yeta keener solicitude, when she considered how little useful,how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been.Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as onmore common occasions. Susan was always ready to hear andto sympathise. Nobody else could be interested in so remotean evil as illness in a family above an hundred miles off;not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two,if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand,and now and then the quiet observation of, "My poorsister Bertram must be in a great deal of trouble."So long divided and so differently situated, the tiesof blood were little more than nothing. An attachment,originally as tranquil as their tempers, was now becomea mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much for LadyBertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price.Three or four Prices might have been swept away,any or all except Fanny and William, and Lady Bertramwould have thought little about it; or perhaps might havecaught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its beinga very happy thing and a great blessing to their poordear sister Price to have them so well provided for.