Mr. Gibson looked at her and smiled his gentle smile which made her feel, delightfully, that he must enjoy conversing with her, even if they differed on some points. “Providence, you call it? Do you believe ‘there’s a divinity that shapes our ends’? That somewhere there sits an eternal auditor who watches over all, and graciously stoops to alter this man’s path or change that woman’s destiny in response to their humble petitions?”
“Of course—can anyone doubt it?”
“I can think of many millions who could doubt it, starting with the men and women kidnapped from their homes, shackled and beaten, who beg aloud for the intercession of a—but I shock you, I perceive. My dear Miss Price, I would never wish to give you pain. If you were to promise to remember me in your prayers, I would deem it an honour. ‘Nymph, in thy orisons, be all my sins remembered.’” He gazed at her earnestly, and could see, even in the dim light, that a deep blush suffused her cheeks, nor could she speak; to spare her embarrassment, he turned away to the window again.
“And as we observe the beauties of the universe on an evening like this, my heart cannot deny a yearning for the consolations of faith, even as my head cannot admit the inconsistencies, the illogic, even the barbarity of our scriptures. Have you read, actually read, the entirety of the Old Testament, Miss Price? Have you ever read Thomas Paine on the subject? No? —well, never mind, I think Paine would be too abrasive for one who has never encountered such writings before.”
“If I understand you correctly, Mr. Gibson, you are in doubt as to the first Author of our morality, yet you are such a very moral man yourself. In the portion of Mr. Clarkson’s book that you gave to us, we heard a beautiful exposition of the moral laws of charity, which explains why the loudest opposition to slavery is to be found among Christians. If there is no divine law, why are you so perturbed by cruelty? From whence arises the strength of your convictions?”
“I do not attempt to deny, or even discount as inconsequential, the fact that most of the leaders of this movement are people of strong religious conviction. Between you and me and the moon, it is sometimes wearisome to hear the confident pronouncements of Wilberforce and his Clapham Saints on exactly what God does or does not approve of. I can only say that it appears self-evident to me that injustice on this earth can be clearly seen and felt, and, being seen, must be opposed, without reference to any supernatural being who cannot be clearly seen or felt, at least not by me. But again, do not let me distress you. If it is any consolation, our mutual friend Miss More has been trying to help me see the error of my ways for some time, and—who knows—she may succeed. By the bye, how did you like her book?”
“Oh! Very well, I suppose, but it is mostly allegorical, just like Pilgrim’s Progress, so it is not the diversion I was hoping for.”
“Then I will not be able to resist the temptation to send some Thomas Paine to you.”
“You will give me Paine after all?”
Gibson laughed aloud, and Fanny realized she had made a pun, and laughed along with him, even though she was a little disappointed and confused to learn that he was not an adherent of that faith she had known and imbibed from childhood. And yet, his eyes were so gentle and merry, and his smile so warm, and his intentions so undoubtedly good, that she would not turn away from his friendship on that account.
Not long after this pleasant evening, Mrs. Butters returned to her home in Stoke Newington, north of London, and she took an affectionate farewell of her niece’s family and left more than a kind word and a thought for the governess, for she invited Fanny to correspond with her. Fanny would gladly have done so for the pleasure of communicating with the blunt old widow for her own sake, but knew, also, that every letter from Mrs. Butters might also bring her news of Mr. Gibson’s doings, and that he in turn would receive news of Miss Price, and she could almost suspect that this was Mrs. Butters’ intention.
Chapter Eleven
Miss Crawford heard nothing from her brother Henry all through December and the New Year, apart from a brief note at Christmas. He was supposed to be scouring the countryside, looking for Fanny Price. Her correspondents, and she had many, told her that Henry was here, there and everywhere during the holidays. Had she been able to send a letter to him, she would have told him that his design to weaken Maria Bertram’s affection for him by staying away was in vain; Maria regarded herself as a woman engaged, and looked forward to their reunion in London.
Mary continued to feed her hopes, reasoning, as always, that close ties between the Crawfords and the Bertrams augured well for her own eventual marriage to Edmund, and she heedlessly flattered Maria with pictures of her coming triumph in the great metropolis, and the jealousy it would engender among the fashionable ladies of London.
“My dear Maria, you cannot have an idea of the sensation that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there will be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor Margaret Fraser—the stepdaughter of my good friend—will be at me forever about your eyes and your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. Ah! poor girl,
