“You are asking me if I was tempted? Fortunately, I refused him before I had the opportunity to think of what it might mean—that I could be the wife of an Earl one day. And I am not so vain as to suppose that Viscount Lynnon has a partiality for me—he was collecting disciples for his friend Shelley, and I happened to be at the Assembly that night.”
The spirit of mutual confidence impelled Fanny to disclose that she, too, had a suitor—Mr. Edifice. “And I am also certain that, were we not thrown together every day at the academy, he would never have thought of me! One does want a proposal of marriage to be based on more than mere convenience!”
“One wants,” said Julia softly, “a declaration from the person that one loves best in all the world. Wouldn’t you?” She looked at Fanny gravely.
Fanny hesitated, startled. Was Julia speaking of her own wishes? Was she thinking with regret of William? Or was she hinting that she knew of Fanny’s love for Edmund? How might she reassure Julia—and herself?
“But—but—many, many people are disappointed in their hopes, so far as a first attachment is concerned, if their affections are not returned, or, or they have not money to marry upon, and so forth. Still, it need not follow that their lives must be entirely blighted. Especially, I think, if one resolves to seek happiness. Those persons who have struggled with disappointment must think of their duty to their family and friends. I am sorry to take such a moralizing strain, but I believe it to be true.”
“And many of these people go on to be happily married in the end?” asked Julia.
“Yes, of course, they do.” said Fanny. “Many of them.”
“Miss Price? Is that our own Miss Price?” a familiar voice exclaimed from the roadside, and Fanny recognized Christopher Jackson, the old carpenter on the Mansfield estate. Her interesting dialogue with Julia must be set aside at their approach to the environs of Mansfield.
The respect and affection in his voice, and the courteous way Fanny asked after Mrs. Jackson and young Christopher and the other little Jacksons, struck Julia most forcibly. It had never occurred to her to ask the Mansfield servants about their families. She did not know the names of their children. She was a “Miss Bertram,” who would have spurned any over-familiarity from a servant or from anyone of the lower orders. They greeted her, Miss Bertram, with a nod of the head, quite properly and politely, and yet—she would have liked for her old retainers’ faces to light up at the sight of her, as they did for her cousin Fanny.
As they proceeded, Fanny viewed with great interest the changes to the familiar landscape, and to her surprise and delight, other passers-by recognized her. Julia had to rein in her horse more than once, so that Fanny could receive their greetings.
Here was Fanny being acclaimed by an old widow, whom she had aided with many charitable visits in the past, and here was a young boy from a poor family who, Fanny declared, had grown two feet since she saw him last. The material comforts that aided these families had come from Sir Thomas, but the food, clothing and monies had been brought round to their cottages and distributed by Fanny’s hand.
Julia had, in the past, preened herself on the generosity and benevolence of her father toward the deserving poor, and, by extension, thought well of herself. Her father’s generosity was a credit to her family and the name of Bertram. But she, she herself, had idled away most of the days of her youth in amusing herself, and had bestowed little time and effort upon others.
She silently resolved to do better in the future, to be more aware, to be more helpful in assisting her brother Edmund. “You have certainly not been forgotten, Fanny,” was all that she said, once the last villager had patted Miss Price’s hand, and said, “God bless you, my dear,” and waved them on their journey.
“This is very gratifying, I will own—but, this is largely because of our Aunt Norris—”
“Aunt Norris!”
“Yes, Aunt Norris, for, whatever else we may say of her, it was she who taught me my duty to the poor, and always kept the poor-basket, and took me with her on her charitable visits,” said Fanny.
Yes, thought Julia to herself, and I always contrived to be elsewhere or doing something else, while Fanny had to struggle along carrying a basket half as big as she was!
And here was another lesson for Julia, for in a few moments they were in Aunt Norris’ parlour in the White House, and she was a witness to Fanny’s polite and unfeigned solicitude despite her aunt’s unfriendly reception! Julia had been accustomed to thinking of Fanny as weak and over-yielding, but surely there was a hidden strength here; a higher species of self-command, a just consideration of others, a principle of right, which Fanny had imbibed as a child and practised every day.
But alas! Aunt Norris had not forgiven nor forgotten Fanny’s role in delaying Henry Crawford’s marriage to Maria, and the disastrous consequences that had followed. Her fond display over Julia was in marked contrast to her manner with Fanny.
“How very well you are looking, Julia! I always said, you and Maria were the handsomest young ladies in the county. And... no news? You have nothing to confide in us?” Mrs. Norris smiled archly and heaved a sigh, for, with few other cares to occupy her days, Julia’s failure to find a husband was an increasing object of solicitude.
This, Julia reflected, was as unjust as it was irritating, because her aunt herself was nearer to thirty than twenty when she
