Mansfield Park
readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She could not
command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her
message to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he
would write to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his
usual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it gradually
wore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three or four days
more, she was in a most restless, anxious state.
At length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be
submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her
useless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she
resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest
in them.
Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early
delight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition
much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for
information’s sake, she had so strong a desire of not _appearing_
ignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most
attentive, profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny’s
explanations and remarks were a most important addition to every essay,
or every chapter of history. What Fanny told her of former times dwelt
more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister
the compliment of preferring her style to that of any printed author.
The early habit of reading was wanting.
Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as
history or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none
returned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,
a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways of
Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and
well-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge
herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong;
though, after a time, Susan’s very great admiration of everything said
or done in her uncle’s house, and earnest longing to go into
Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings
which could not be gratified.
Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder
sister; and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to
feel that when her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness
would have a material drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so
capable of being made everything good should be left in such hands,
distressed her more and more. Were _she_ likely to have a home to
invite her to, what a blessing it would be! And had it been possible
for her to return Mr. Crawford’s regard, the probability of his being
very far from objecting to such a measure would have been the greatest
increase of all her own comforts. She thought he was really
good-tempered, and could fancy his entering into a plan of that sort
most pleasantly.
CHAPTER XLIV
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 saw its length, she prepared herself for a
minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards
the 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 not have been
wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned
to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are
much weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of
you as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you
enough of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will
not be prevented, however, from making my own communication. Our
confidences in you need not clash. I ask no questions. There is
something soothing in the idea that we have the same friend, and that
whatever unhappy differences of opinion may exist between us, we are
united in our love of you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how
things now are, and what are my present plans, if plans I can be said
to have. I have been returned since Saturday. I was three weeks in
London, and saw her (for London) very often. I had every attention from
the Frasers that could be reasonably expected. I dare say I was not
reasonable in carrying with me hopes of an intercourse at all like that
of Mansfield. It was her manner, however, rather than any unfrequency
of meeting. Had she been different when I did see her, I should have
made no complaint, but from the very first she was altered: my first
reception was so unlike what I had hoped, that I had almost resolved on
leaving London again directly. I need not particularise. You know the
weak side of her character, and may imagine the sentiments and
expressions which were torturing me. She was in high spirits, and
surrounded by those who were giving all the support of their own bad
sense to her too lively mind. I do not like Mrs. Fraser. She is a
cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely from 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 the determined
supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious, provided it be only
mercenary and ambitious enough. I look upon her intimacy with those two
sisters as the greatest misfortune of her life and mine. They have been
leading her astray for years. Could she be detached from them!—and
sometimes I do not despair of it, for the affection appears to me
principally on their side. They are very fond of her; but I am sure she
does not love them as she loves you. When I think of her great
attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious, upright
conduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature, capable of
everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too harsh
construction of a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is
the only woman in 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
influence of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous of. It
is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher than her
own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes united
could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could better
bear to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my
profession. That would only prove her affection not equal to
sacrifices, which, in fact, I am scarcely justified 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 thoughts exactly
as they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory,
but it will not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once
begun, it is a pleasure to 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 society of some of those most
dear to me; to banish myself from the very houses and friends whom,
under any other distress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of
Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of
Fanny. Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know
how to bear it, and how to endeavour to weaken her 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 may be the
likeliest means? I have sometimes thought of going to London again
after Easter, and sometimes resolved on doing 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 shall write
to her. I have nearly determined on explaining myself by letter. To be
at an early certainty is a material object. My present state is
miserably irksome. Considering everything, I think a letter will be
decidedly the best method of explanation. I shall be able to write much
that I could not say, and shall be giving her time for reflection
before she resolves on her answer, and I am less afraid of the result
of reflection than 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 it
may afterwards regret. I must think this matter over a 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
hear of him. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his
own mind, and acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality. I
could not see him and my eldest sister in the same room without
recollecting what you once told me, and I acknowledge that they did not
meet as 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 any former supposed slight to Miss Bertram. You
will wish to hear my opinion of Maria’s degree of comfort as a wife.
There is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well
together. I dined twice in Wimpole Street, and might have been there
oftener, but it is mortifying to be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia
seems to enjoy London exceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but
have less here. We are not a lively party. You are very much wanted. I
miss you more than I can express. My mother desires her best love, and
hopes to hear from you soon. She talks of you almost every hour, and I
am sorry to find how many weeks more she is likely to be without you.
My father means to fetch you himself, but it will not be till after
Easter, when he has business 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 till I know that it will ever have a mistress. I
think I shall certainly write. It is quite settled that the Grants go
to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not
comfortable enough to be fit for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel
out of luck that such an article of Mansfield news should fall to my
pen instead of hers.—Yours ever, my dearest Fanny.”
“I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again,” was
Fanny’s secret declaration as she finished this. “What do they bring
but disappointment and 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 as she could, but
she was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was
quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main subject