There could be no mitigation, no palliation to explain the letter which last night, he had examined with his own eyes, again and again. His wife’s handwriting, speaking of a letter from Fanny to him—a letter that she claimed he had shown to her, a letter they had discussed together—how often had he lamented to her, how often had he spoken of his regret that Fanny had left him no note! How often had she comforted and distracted him! How often had he consoled himself that, whatever else, in Mary he had a loving and sympathetic companion. It was all falsehood, all lies.
And then, unbidden, he began to think of everything that could be said to extenuate, to excuse, to explain, his wife’s conduct. Jealousy, it appeared, had impelled her to the course she took. Her apparent love for him, her choice of him as her husband, she who had been sought by so many, and further, the more than unfortunate childhood she had endured, the polluting influence of her friends—did not all of this urge him to seek a reconciliation? To understand and to forgive?
But, her carelessness for the safety of Maria this past spring, her indifference when Maria was abandoned by her brother, her willingness to say anything false about his cousin Fanny, the ease with which she lied to him to secure her own ends, all of this spoke to severe faults of principle, of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind.
He began to catalogue all the ways that the Crawfords, between them, had deceived and hurt his family. The list of their crimes grew and multiplied in his mind—the destruction of Maria, the injury to Julia, the calumnies directed toward Fanny.
And after thoroughly canvassing the character of his wife and her brother, he began to examine himself and he could nearly despair. He castigated himself for his own folly, and as he revolved the events of the last half-year, he reviled his own blindness and complacency in believing everything Mary had told him about Fanny’s coldness toward him. He wished to write to Fanny, but even more ardently, wished to see her in person.
Then, with growing self-condemnation, he asked himself if he had been as blind as regards Fanny as he had been toward Mary, assuming Fanny’s complaisance and agreement with him on all points, including his regard for Mary Crawford. What silent wounds had he inflicted on Fanny, when praising Mary Crawford to her face? Supposing that she indeed held him in tender esteem, as Mary evidently believed, how painful must it have been when he, without her leave, forced her to be his confidante as he discussed his growing love for Mary, along with his doubts as to her character, and thus forced her to witness as his attraction to Mary triumphed over his scruples?
He recalled their final private conversation when he had in fact compelled her to agree with him in his decision to take the part of Anhalt, to spare Mary from the indelicacy of playing love scenes with a stranger in Lovers' Vows! Perhaps Fanny knew, but could not suggest to him, that Mary was far from fastidious as to points of delicacy and modesty. Perhaps her sudden departure—
He could only hope that this suggestion, that Fanny loved him as more than a cousin, was an invention of Mary’s jealous mind. His love for Fanny had always been as a devoted brother, for they were, so far as he was concerned, as close as brother and sister, though merely cousins. Now, he could never atone for the pain he had unconsciously caused her, nor, as a married man, ever return that devotion which might have been his for the asking. They were both married to others now—out of delicacy, he could not pursue the supposition.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fanny was learning that the objects of our benevolence do not always conform to our conception of them. She had supposed that she and Susan would spend hours studying books together, as she and Edmund had done, but discovered that Susan was no reader; she preferred to learn by watching and doing, and declared that she did not aspire to be a fine “useless” lady, but wanted to learn how to manage a household. She petitioned to be allowed to follow the housekeeper, and to help in the kitchen, and learn how to cook, instead of being cooped up in the library poring over The Theory of Moral Sentiments. The cook and kitchen maids at first regarded her as a spy and a sneak, and indeed, as she had grown up in her mother’s house, Susan had no other conception of servants but as persons to be watched and reported on, but when the servants saw that she truly wished to understand the doings of a great house, they were happy to relieve themselves of the tedious chores, such as beating egg whites, in favour of the eager apprentice.
Fanny then engaged a music master to teach them both the pianoforte, and she and Susan practised companionably together for a time, until Susan grew weary of the monotony of playing
