by Lona Manning
However, to my knowledge, no lasting harm has arisen, at least none has appeared, so to judge by both Mary’s intent and the result, I cannot condemn her. She was only too ready to fall in with the inclination of others, and that is in itself perfectly amiable. If persuadableness and complacency be her only faults, as I am now convinced, how readily she shall be able to correct herself, once removed from the polluting influence of her uncle and her unscrupulous friends. They have been leading her astray for years. Even her prejudice against the clergy may be removed—in time—when I am able to show her, by gentle and patient example, that the life is not a contemptible one.
You can bear me witness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over her little errors! For I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her character the more by the recollection of the faults she once had….
Scruples! Talked over her errors! For a time Mary was so angry, at Fanny and at Edmund as well, that she looked wildly about her but observed nothing. Her glance alone should have blasted the spring blossoms from the trees and withered the bluebell on its stalk. To think of Edmund discussing her faults with that milksop of a girl! And many a time! Was Fanny Price, of all people, to be her judge? Was the opinion and estimation of a Fanny Price the means by which her future husband measured the worth of his bride?
Mary gave vent to her spleen by folding the note over again and again and then ripping it into shreds with the strength of outrage. She pictured her own nails tearing into Fanny Price’s pale little face, peeling away the false mask of humility and exposing the sly, calculating creature who lived within. She could scarcely keep her seat in her carriage, she knew not how to contain herself, and looking around wildly, even greatly alarmed her lady’s maid and Henry’s manservant, who were sitting on the platform behind her, until, upon finally perceiving how these two servants were shrinking away from her and endeavouring to avoid falling under her gaze, (for they had borne the brunt of her tempers before) she finally mastered herself enough to sit silently, facing forward, as still as a statue, although her angry passions did not subside for several hours more.
Now she rejected with scorn the idea of asking Edmund or Fanny to forgive her. The two of them had secretly conspired against her—speaking of her behind her back! No doubt Fanny, between soft murmurings of assent to whatever Edmund had said, had poured her own brand of poison into his ears, saying whatever she could to destroy Edmund’s affection and confidence. Mary’s own heart felt like stone within her breast, and it was some time before her feelings toward Edmund softened, and procured him something like a pardon, while the blame all shifted toward Fanny Price.
She thought of the letter she had written to Fanny, thinking her to be in Portsmouth, in which she had made Fanny understand that she, Mary, saw through Fanny’s assumed façade of innocence, candour and modesty, and recognized her as being devious and cunning, though all the rest of the world was blind! Although the letter had been written in anger, she meant every word of it, and would retract not a jot—only, it still would not do for Edmund to ever know of it, and she must retrieve it, if it was to be found.
* * * * * *
As it happened, it was as futile to find a missing letter in the Price household as it was to find a clean dish, or an unwrinkled shirt, or a stocking that didn’t need darning. Little Betsey, however, had not forgotten her commission from the beautiful lady, and when the Crawfords called briefly at the Price abode, she brought Miss Crawford the newspaper, pulled out of her own father’s hands, and a street ballad about a sensational murder that Susan had purchased, and demanded a shilling for each. Henry, laughing, urged Mary to pay the little hoyden, so Mary handed over two shiny coins, smiled sweetly and murmured, “Remember, it is letters that I need. Keep them for me. I shall come back for them.” Betsey, obviously eager to oblige, disappeared upstairs but returned shortly, with a woebegone expression and no letters in her hand, and Mary felt increasingly certain that she must be safe.
She and her brother declared themselves, as friends of Sir Thomas, to be the well-wishers of William, and proposed to take him away to the Crown Inn to ply him with roast beef and good ale to celebrate his safe return to England. To Mrs. Price, nothing could be more natural than that her eldest son deserved such a distinction, and a cheerful William was soon seated in a private dining-room with the Crawfords where they unhurriedly made his acquaintance.
Henry Crawford’s encouraging questions, and Mary Crawford’s admiring glances, soon had the unsuspecting midshipman relating some of his adventures. Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies; in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in his power he had a right to be listened to; even Mary found herself liking the unpretending brother of Fanny.
Henry Crawford discovered that this young man actually aroused feelings of jealousy within his breast—and yet something more, a feeling he was unaccustomed to, which was self-reproach. He longed to have been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!
The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from his sister about the missing Fanny, and he returned his attention to the matter at hand, finding it was pleasant to have the sole command of his own time, and to choose where, when and how he could come and go, for Mary asked William Price if he had visited Fanny, and the young man answered in the negative, explaining that he was waiting to be paid out for some prize monies and needs must remain in Portsmouth to receive his share.
“I dare say that your parents were anxious to know everything you know about your sister’s whereabouts,” Mary speculated thoughtfully.
“Why, no, in fact, ma’am,” William looked confused. “My parents—my parents hadn’t thought to ask me if Fanny had written to me. They have been that happy to see me, begging your pardons, for I have been away from England for so long, and my father was a sea-going man, before he was injured, so…..”
“Ah, of course,” Mary murmured, noting to herself that to be a daughter in the Price household was obviously to be an afterthought for both mother and father. So Fanny Price was as forgotten at home as she was neglected at Mansfield.
Henry explained that he had promised the Bertrams he would find Fanny and reassure the family at Mansfield Park of her safety; and return her, if possible, to the bosom of her family. “She is in Bristol, or thereabouts, is she not?” Henry asked nonchalantly, refilling William’s glass.
“I must beg your pardon sir, but my sister asked me not to disclose her direction to anyone, even though –” he broke off and chewed his lip.
“What is it, Mr. Price?” asked Mary, all concern.
“My sister has not written me this month. I know that letters can miscarry, and in fact, it is a wonder to me how the navy can bring me a letter from my sister, from hand to hand, from boat to packet, from packet to ship, all over the globe, and while sometimes the letter must chase around after me for a while, it does find me in time, and me just a common midshipman, so now that I am on shore, I am sorry I don’t find a letter from her waiting for me here at home. She must know I am back in England, and I would sorely like to see her after all these years. But without leave, I cannot go to—to where she is, and so…. I have a letter ready to send to her, but I was
hoping every day to see something from her….”
Henry smiled and Mary placed a sympathetic hand lightly on the midshipman’s well-muscled forearm.
“We do have some knowledge of the family, and are only asking for your confirmation. Fanny herself told us that she was to meet a wealthy widow—in Oxford, I believe it was, and go from thence to Bristol. Will that satisfy your sense of delicacy, as regards your sister’s confidence?”
William’s honest face brightened up. “Oh yes. Fan never told me she had confided in you as well. Yes, she wrote me about Mrs. Butters—a very kind lady.”
“Well then,” continued Henry, “my information is that she is with a family by the name of Simpson, is that so?”
William’s brow clouded, “Simpson?”
“Oh, no, no, no, I misspoke. It is Smallridge, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. That’s right, sir. Smallridge, of Keynsham Hill, just outside of Bristol. She says she is contented there, sir, otherwise I would have sent her funds to come home to our mother. And if you was—were—to see my sister, could you ask her, can she come to Portsmouth to visit her family?”
“Have no fear. We will bring her to you, young man. May we convey your letter to your sister?” Mary offered her most charming smile, which was rewarded by an unaffected, open grin from the young midshipman.
Chapter Sixteen
Fanny lay on a wicker chaise under the trees, watching the children play nearby with the nursery maids. She was able to read and talk to them a little, and wanted to do more rather than less, for her conscience smote her that a se'nnight had elapsed since her recovery, yet she was still too weak to take up her duties. But she was still very tired and pale. At least she had summoned the energy to wash herself thoroughly, over Anna’s shocked protests, and even wash her hair, so that her natural soft curls now covered her head. Her eyes looked large in her face and her cheekbones were more pronounced than they had been before her sickness. She was in nervous anticipation of the visit from Mr. Gibson—the blanket was drawn up to her chin—and she hoped he would not be too dismayed at her altered appearance.
He arrived, and he was alarmed by her thin frame and her pale countenance, but he hid it well, with his usual warm smile, and he sat down, cross-legged, on the grass beside her with no ceremony.
At his request, she gave him a short description of her illness and recovery, and they sat silent again for a while, and a footman brought them lemonade to drink, and a cushion for him to sit on, then he asked— “What is it like, to almost die? Did you see heaven? What were your thoughts?”
“I have reflected on that, Mr. Gibson, and I believe that I profited more while caring for Caroline and Edward than when I was ill myself. Then, I was rational, and I had time to think about a great many things, such as how childish I have been in the past—I mean, as regards my own little difficulties. Oh, and I thought of you, as well.”
“Really?” he sat upright, pleased and attentive.
“You will recall that you asked me if I had read the Old Testament. When I was younger I read the book of Job. And I will acknowledge to you, it appeared unfair and unjust to me at the time that the children of Job should have perished, to test the faith of their father. Why was Job’s soul of more consequence than the souls of his children, and his servants? They were spoken of little differently than his camels and all the other animals he lost. He suffered, yes—but did they not suffer more, by losing their lives? Both Caroline and Edward could have died, and they have already lost a younger brother—but still, am I to believe the common cant that losing a child is truly a test, sent by God, of the parents?”
Mr. Gibson decided to say nothing, partly because he did not wish to attack Miss Price’s faith, especially not at such a time, and also because he was a little disappointed to understand, after her having made so promising a beginning, she had not thought on him much at all, except as someone who had posed a question. But he could have said much about how frequently and how earnestly he had been threatened with the terrors of hell for the most minor transgressions when a young child, and as an unlooked-for consequence, he had very early come to doubt the justice of the God of Abraham. The overweening interest which the Almighty Jehovah took in the misdeeds of a small lad who daydreamed in church, the apparent eagerness of the Lord of Hosts to consign Master William Gibson to a lake of fire for all eternity, did not lead the rebellious boy to draw those conclusions which his uncle intended that he should.
After a moment of silence, Fanny continued. “However, I have learned from witnessing the sufferings of others. That is, I have been brought to comprehend that my own solicitude for myself, my own self-pity, was for concerns that were mere trifles, in comparison to the burdens other people must sometimes bear. I have been so….. so all consumed with my own problems, so selfish, silly and…. weak.”
“No,” he said gently. ‘You have been young, that’s all. And you are still young. Do not berate yourself for the faults of youth. I am sure that whatever you have done, or did not do, was nothing to my faults, for example. My good uncle brought me up, and paid for me to go to Cambridge, and what did I do? I left school early, and refused to enter the law or the ministry, and brought his grey hair with sorrow down to the grave.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How kind you are, not to preach to me, but simply to listen! And as for you being weak, what nonsense. What strength you must have, Miss Price, to be still alive today, despite the best efforts of the finest physician in the county! You must be stronger than you know, stronger than you ever imagined.”
It warmed his heart to see that his encouraging words brought a faint blush to those pale cheeks.
“And I will accuse you of being unselfish, Miss Price, extraordinarily unselfish, for after being so very ill yourself, your thoughts are all for the sufferings of others—for these children, for their mother and father.”
“Oh! Who would not be moved, who sees a child suffer?” Fanny dismissed the compliment, so Mr. Gibson diverted her with some amusing tales of his own childhood—he had evidently been a very naughty boy, indeed—and her ready laughter gave him the best assurance that she was in the way of recovering, both in body and in mind.
“Miss Price, you were not offended, I hope, by my proposal that we correspond? I like talking with you, my little friend, and I thought we could form our own circulating library, as it were, and share books and discuss them by letter. Would you think it improper?”
“Well… if we entered into a correspondence, would we not lay ourselves open to the suspicion, or expectation….” she coughed, he leaned closer to hear her. “Mr. Gibson, you were candid enough to say that you have resolved against—against entering upon domestic life, because of your commitment to your cause, and I just wanted to explain that I… that I…”
“You love someone,” he said, with that same gentle smile. She was surprised, but nodded, feeling a flood of relief upon sharing her secret with someone.
“Mrs. Butters and I, we each thought as much, after hearing you recite Helena’s speech so beautifully that evening. We did differ on—well, let us just say that Mrs. Butters owes me a shilling. Does this gentleman know his good fortune?”
“Oh! No, no, that could never be.”
“Why?” Mr. Gibson let the question hang in the air.
Fanny furrowed her brow. “Well, he is—I am not…”
“Let me ask you something, Miss Price. I am very curious. Just over a week ago, you almost left this vale of tears behind and went to sit at the Right Hand, perched on a cloud, no doubt, with wings on your back and a harp in your hand.” She rolled her eyes at him, knowing that he was teasing her. “Or, we must await further bulletins on the precise conditions of the life hereafter, because, to my intense disappointment, you don’t recall seeing heaven or angels, rather—if I understood you correctly—only the ramparts around Portsmouth, and the sea beyond it, and I refuse to believe that the eternal reward for God’s righteous servants is to bob about
in the Spithead.
“At any rate, at the time you were so very ill, didn’t you regret the fact that the gentleman was in ignorance of your affection for him? Did you regret that your secret would die with you? Because, truthfully, if I loved, and if I thought I might never see the young lady again, whether or not I had any hope whatsoever of a return, I believe I would unburden myself and tell her as much.”
“But that is different! You are a man, and women don’t….” her voice trailed off.
“Indeed. You wouldn’t want to be indecorous. It would be too shocking altogether.” He started idly pulling up some nearby wildflowers and stripping the leaves from them absent-mindedly. “Still, I would like to know, what is the worst thing that could happen if you informed the gentleman? You would be exchanging uncertainty for certainty, would you not?”
Fanny closed her eyes.
“Forgive me. I have over-tired you, and asked questions which were none of my business. We scribblers are like that. Beware of making friends with any of our tribe, Miss Price, or you may find yourself inscribed within the pages of some novel whether you will or no. I can control your destiny as a puppet master pulls the strings on his puppets! So, I will take my leave, most reluctantly. But may we correspond?”
“Yes, I would like that very, very much. No one here seems to care about books. I’d like to discuss them with you.”
“Good afternoon, then, Miss Price.” He rose, and took her little hand carefully, and placed it gently back on the blanket which covered her. He rode away slowly, with a borrowed pony cart, and wondered how it could be that such an intelligent, discerning, gentle woman could think so lowly of herself. Had the man she loved treated her cruelly? What had her childhood been like? He himself had survived a childhood of neglect and severity and yet, he was by nature optimistic, confident, certain of the way he wished to conduct his own life. He had been planted in rocky soil and by his own estimation, he had flourished. But Fanny was different—she was a delicate plant, and she had been badly bruised, and a man naturally felt the urge to protect and shelter her, and to see that she came to no harm. But, what could he do for her, as poor and obscure as he was?