Chapter XLV

by Jane Austen

　　At about the week's end from his return to Mansfield,Tom's immediate danger was over, and he was so farpronounced safe as to make his mother perfectly easy;for being now used to the sight of him in his suffering,helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinkingbeyond what she heard, with no disposition for alarmand no aptitude at a hint, Lady Bertram was the happiestsubject in the world for a little medical imposition.The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint;of course he would soon be well again. Lady Bertram couldthink nothing less, and Fanny shared her aunt's security,till she received a few lines from Edmund, written purposelyto give her a clearer idea of his brother's situation,and acquaint her with the apprehensions which he and hisfather had imbibed from the physician with respect to somestrong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the frameon the departure of the fever. They judged it bestthat Lady Bertram should not be harassed by alarms which,it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded; but there wasno reason why Fanny should not know the truth. They wereapprehensive for his lungs.A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patientand the sickroom in a juster and stronger light thanall Lady Bertram's sheets of paper could do. There washardly any one in the house who might not have described,from personal observation, better than herself;not one who was not more useful at times to her son.She could do nothing but glide in quietly and look at him;but when able to talk or be talked to, or read to,Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worriedhim by her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring downhis conversation or his voice to the level of irritationand feebleness. Edmund was all in all. Fanny wouldcertainly believe him so at least, and must find that herestimation of him was higher than ever when he appearedas the attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother.There was not only the debility of recent illness to assist:there was also, as she now learnt, nerves much affected,spirits much depressed to calm and raise, and her ownimagination added that there must be a mind to beproperly guided.The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclinedto hope than fear for her cousin, except when she thoughtof Miss Crawford; but Miss Crawford gave her the ideaof being the child of good luck, and to her selfishnessand vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only son.Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary wasnot forgotten. Edmund's letter had this postscript."On the subject of my last, I had actually begun a letterwhen called away by Tom's illness, but I have now changedmy mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends.When Tom is better, I shall go."Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued,with scarcely any change, till Easter. A line occasionallyadded by Edmund to his mother's letter was enough forFanny's information. Tom's amendment was alarmingly slow.Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had mostsorrowfully considered, on first learning that she hadno chance of leaving Portsmouth till after it. It came,and she had yet heard nothing of her return--nothing evenof the going to London, which was to precede her return.Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there wasno notice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended.She supposed he could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel,a terrible delay to her. The end of April was coming on;it would soon be almost three months, instead of two,that she had been absent from them all, and that her dayshad been passing in a state of penance, which she lovedthem too well to hope they would thoroughly understand;and who could yet say when there might be leisure to thinkof or fetch her?Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them,were such as to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirociniumfor ever before her. "With what intense desire she wantsher home," was continually on her tongue, as the truestdescription of a yearning which she could not supposeany schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to callit her home, had been fond of saying that she was going home;the word had been very dear to her, and so it still was,but it must be applied to Mansfield. _That_ was nowthe home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield was home.They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of hersecret meditations, and nothing was more consolatoryto her than to find her aunt using the same language:"I cannot but say I much regret your being from homeat this distressing time, so very trying to my spirits.I trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absentfrom home so long again," were most delightful sentencesto her. Still, however, it was her private regale.Delicacy to her parents made her careful not to betraysuch a preference of her uncle's house. It was always:"When I go back into Northamptonshire, or when I returnto Mansfield, I shall do so and so." For a greatwhile it was so, but at last the longing grew stronger,it overthrew caution, and she found herself talking of whatshe should do when she went home before she was aware.She reproached herself, coloured, and looked fearfully towardsher father and mother. She need not have been uneasy.There was no sign of displeasure, or even of hearing her.They were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield.She was as welcome to wish herself there as to be there.It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring.She had not known before what pleasures she _had_ to losein passing March and April in a town. She had not knownbefore how much the beginnings and progress of vegetationhad delighted her. What animation, both of body and mind,she had derived from watching the advance of that seasonwhich cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely,and seeing its increasing beauties from the earliestflowers in the warmest divisions of her aunt's garden,to the opening of leaves of her uncle's plantations,and the glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasureswas no trifle; to be losing them, because she was inthe midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement,bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty,freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse:but even these incitements to regret were feeble,compared with what arose from the conviction of beingmissed by her best friends, and the longing to be usefulto those who were wanting her!Could she have been at home, she might have been of serviceto every creature in the house. She felt that she musthave been of use to all. To all she must have saved sometrouble of head or hand; and were it only in supportingthe spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from the evilof solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless,officious companion, too apt to be heightening dangerin order to enhance her own importance, her being therewould have been a general good. She loved to fancy how shecould have read to her aunt, how she could have talkedto her, and tried at once to make her feel the blessingof what was, and prepare her mind for what might be;and how many walks up and down stairs she might havesaved her, and how many messages she might have carried.It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfiedwith remaining in London at such a time, through anillness which had now, under different degrees of danger,lasted several weeks. _They_ might return to Mansfieldwhen they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to _them_,and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away.If Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations,Julia was certainly able to quit London whenever she chose.It appeared from one of her aunt's letters that Juliahad offered to return if wanted, but this was all.It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.Fanny was disposed to think the influence of Londonvery much at war with all respectable attachments.She saw the proof of it in Miss Crawford, as well as inher cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had been respectable,the most respectable part of her character; her friendshipfor herself had at least been blameless. Where waseither sentiment now? It was so long since Fanny had hadany letter from her, that she had some reason to thinklightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt on.It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss Crawfordor of her other connexions in town, except through Mansfield,and she was beginning to suppose that she might neverknow whether Mr. Crawford had gone into Norfolk againor not till they met, and might never hear from hissister any more this spring, when the following letterwas received to revive old and create some new sensations--"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for mylong silence, and behave as if you could forgive me directly.This is my modest request and expectation, for you are so good,that I depend upon being treated better than I deserve,and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I want to knowthe state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt,are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute notto feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear,poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery.I thought little of his illness at first. I lookedupon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with,and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder,and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him;but now it is confidently asserted that he is reallyin a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming,and that part of the family, at least, are aware of it.If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part,that discerning part, and therefore entreat you to letme know how far I have been rightly informed. I neednot say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has beenany mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I confessI cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young mancut off in the flower of his days is most melancholy.Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quiteagitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smileand look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribeda physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to die,there will be _two_ poor young men less in the world;and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one,that wealth and consequence could fall into no handsmore deserving of them. It was a foolish precipitationlast Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blottedout in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains.It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name.With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked.Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety,and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth,as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do nottrouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings oryour own. Believe me, they are not only natural, they arephilanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience,whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do more good with allthe Bertram property than any other possible 'Sir.'Had the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you,but you are now the only one I can apply to for the truth,his sisters not being within my reach. Mrs. R. hasbeen spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham(as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned;and Julia is with the cousins who live near Bedford Square,but I forget their name and street. Could I immediatelyapply to either, however, I should still prefer you,because it strikes me that they have all along been sounwilling to have their own amusements cut up, as to shuttheir eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.'s Easterholidays will not last much longer; no doubt they arethorough holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant people;and her husband away, she can have nothing but enjoyment.I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully downto Bath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and thedowager agree in one house? Henry is not at hand, so Ihave nothing to say from him. Do not you think Edmund wouldhave been in town again long ago, but for this illness?--Yours ever, Mary.""I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in,but he brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it.Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning:she returns to Wimpole Street to-day; the old lady is come.Now do not make yourself uneasy with any queer fanciesbecause he has been spending a few days at Richmond.He does it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobodybut you. At this very moment he is wild to see you,and occupied only in contriving the means for doing so,and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In proof,he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouthabout our conveying you home, and I join him in it with allmy soul. Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come.It will do us all good. He and I can go to the Parsonage,you know, and be no trouble to our friends at Mansfield Park.It would really be gratifying to see them all again, and alittle addition of society might be of infinite use to them;and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there,that you cannot in conscience--conscientious as you are--keep away, when you have the means of returning.I have not time or patience to give half Henry's messages;be satisfied that the spirit of each and every one isunalterable affection."Fanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter,with her extreme reluctance to bring the writer of itand her cousin Edmund together, would have made her (asshe felt) incapable of judging impartially whetherthe concluding offer might be accepted or not.To herself, individually, it was most tempting. To befinding herself, perhaps within three days, transportedto Mansfield, was an image of the greatest felicity,but it would have been a material drawback to be owingsuch felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct,at the present moment, she saw so much to condemn:the sister's feelings, the brother's conduct,_her_ cold-hearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless vanity.To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps,of Mrs. Rushworth! She was mortified. She had thoughtbetter of him. Happily, however, she was not left to weighand decide between opposite inclinations and doubtfulnotions of right; there was no occasion to determinewhether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not.She had a rule to apply to, which settled everything.Her awe of her uncle, and her dread of taking a libertywith him, made it instantly plain to her what shehad to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal.If he wanted, he would send for her; and even to offeran early return was a presumption which hardly anythingwould have seemed to justify. She thanked Miss Crawford,but gave a decided negative. "Her uncle, she understood,meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's illness had continuedso many weeks without her being thought at all necessary,she must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present,and that she should be felt an encumbrance."Her representation of her cousin's state at this timewas exactly according to her own belief of it, and suchas she supposed would convey to the sanguine mind of hercorrespondent the hope of everything she was wishing for.Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed,under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected,was all the conquest of prejudice which he was so readyto congratulate himself upon. She had only learnt to thinknothing of consequence but money.