There was of course a letter with the necklace, in which Edmund told Fanny of his engagement to Mary, expressed again his sorrow that Fanny had never written him, and spoke of his wish that she might return to attend his wedding. He then dilated on the charms and perfections of his bride-to-be, and Mary, enchanted, read that passage again and again, in a perfect warm glow of contentment, before finally turning the page, whereupon she came to a passage which destroyed her good humour:
…. for, Fanny, as I have so frequently confided my misgivings to you in the past, you are entitled to know my thoughts, now that Mary has consented to be my wife. While I now repose every confidence in Mary’s essential goodness and benevolence, I confess that her warm and passionate spirits led her to commit a wrongdoing, one which shook me, however briefly, from the conviction I had long held that she is the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. The particulars need not be related, but in short, she was led to dissemble at the request of a friend. The greater fault lies with the friend who asked her to stoop to falsehoods, for I believe this friend was as deceitful to Mary as she had been to her own family. But, further reflection convinced me, that although Mary was careless as a woman and a friend, she gained nothing personally by this falsehood—her intention was only to oblige.
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
