Mrs. Croft fixed a shrewd look upon William. “Perhaps he has only one sweetheart in mind.”
“Then, this news will gladden her heart! Happy for you, man!”
“Alas, my dear Admiral, his old captain, our friend Captain Columbine, counselled him against marriage!”
“Every man must decide for himself, to be sure,” said Admiral Croft. “But a captain cannot hold his ship back from battle, for fear he may come to grief, and I trust that you, Commander Price, will be as bold and resolute on the seas as your nation expects of you, though you may choose to be more timid in your own affairs.”
“The Admiral,” said Mrs. Croft with a smile, “is not comparing marriage to a naval engagement in any particular way. But the same principle applies—our fears of the worst should not prevent us from acting in a manner which would best constitute our own happiness. Forgive me for my impertinence, Commander Price, it is none of my affair, and I will only add, I wish you continuing good fortune, and the wind at your back.”
Admiral Croft clapped William heartily on the shoulder.
“Hasten home, my boy, hasten home, and claim your prize. What is there to wait for?”
* * * * * * *
It was a Sunday afternoon, and Julia and Edmund returned from morning services and finished the basin of soup which Mrs. Peckover had left for them. Unlike Dr. Grant, for whom the Sunday dinner at Mansfield Parsonage was a reward for the exertions of his eloquence in the pulpit, Edmund had established the Sabbath as a day of rest for even his own household servants, and he and Julia enjoyed their quiet Sundays together.
After they ate, Julia went upstairs to change to a simple house dress. From out of her window she saw Edmund, his bible tucked under his arm, walking back to the church to conduct a baptism. He looked so alone, thought Julia. And how did her poor brother feel when he took the infants of the parish into his arms, and pronounced their names, and beheld the pride and happiness of their mothers and fathers? He, who would have been a most excellent father...
Julia realized with a start that a full year had elapsed since the time her brother Edmund had received the letter from Mary. Matters had remained in suspense between them—another twelvemonth gone by—and there was no resolution. Julia had spent the same year waiting for a reversal of fortune that prudence told her could not rationally be expected.
Edmund had said nothing to her, had not so much as hinted of his dilemma, but it struck her forcibly that day—her presence at Thornton Lacey prevented Edmund from reuniting with his wife.
“He will not leave Thornton Lacey for I have no other home to go to,” she murmured aloud to herself.
How selfish it was to continue in her present state, and keep Edmund from Mary. How futile were the hopes she had cherished! How pointless to hope in vain!
A sudden resolution seized her. She fetched some writing paper from her brother’s study and sat at the dining table. A soft breeze fanned the window curtains as she wrote.
Dear Mr. Meriwether, she began:
After much reflection upon my readiness to enter the married state, I write today to assure you that I am extremely gratified and honoured by your proposal of marriage, which has also received the approbation of my beloved parents.
Therefore, my dear sir, I accept your proposal, being fully assured within myself that in pledging my hand to you, I embark upon matrimony with a man in whose character, honour, and temper I may rely...
The letter was sent to the post the next morning and she knew he would be reading it by the following day.
I will grow accustomed, she told herself. I will grow resigned. I will be content.
* * * * * * *
And what was Fanny thinking and doing that same Sunday afternoon, two days after her dismissal? Thanks to the return of Mrs. Butters and Madame Orly, she was feeling much better. They were of course more indignant on her behalf than she was for herself, and Madame Orly was all for resigning her position at the shop in protest, but Fanny urged against it. She was touched by the affection which prompted the offer, but feared that the gesture would only harm the charitable efforts of the school. For the same reason, Fanny counselled restraint when Mrs. Butter penned a long, stern letter to the ladies of the committee. “They after all have contributed their time freely,” said Fanny, “it would be unkind to upbraid them.”
“Does my sister-in-law suppose, does Mrs. Wakefield suppose,” answered Mrs. Butters in an angry tone, “that I would carelessly foist an immoral person into a place wherein the welfare of young people was at stake? Or do they think that I, having had you as guest in my home this twelve-month and more, must be entirely in ignorance of your character? Am I blind, deaf and ignorant? Or worse, do they think me mendacious and abandoned in my principles? Or not worth consulting, before they took this absurd decision? As for Cecilia—well—I cannot trust myself there!”
It was not in Fanny’s nature to listen with satisfaction while Mrs. Butters inveighed against her sister- and daughter-in-law. She could not rejoice in family quarrels, but at the same time she derived great comfort in these proofs of affection and loyalty. They helped to compose and she knew they must, in time, reconcile her to her new situation. The affectionate support of her friends, combined with intervals of quiet meditation, had materially restored Fanny’s mind to some measure of tranquillity.
Fanny was preparing to go out for another long walk when a hackney coach stopped in front of Mrs. Butter’s house. To her surprise and pleasure, William Gibson alighted along with
