On her previous visits, her reception had been much the same. Her ways were not their ways. She had been raised and educated in a great mansion. Her delicacy and elegance, her well-organized work-basket, even the way she sipped her soup, was a reproach to the family’s coarser, slapdash mode of life. Her quieter voice went unheard amidst the hullaballo—for even the death of their father did not diminish the vigour of Charles and Betsey, and the family was seldom in the habit of allowing one another to finish an utterance without interruption. Her opinions were unsought on any matter.
She observed all this, rather than felt it deeply. She had hoped to be more, much more, to her family, but she had been gone for so many years, that it was too late for her to re-join them. She knew this kind of estrangement did not arise in all families, where a long separation had occurred. Something was wanting, or lacking, in her own, or in her. She did not know how to amend it. She was resigned to deriving what contentment she could, out of making herself useful.
If Portsmouth could not be regarded as “home,” and Mansfield Park was her home no longer, Fanny quite understandably began to meditate on a future home not yet in existence.
Fanny’s greatest pleasure, and she indulged in it privately, was reading the long, amusing, affectionate letters which William Gibson sent her, which she fetched by herself from the post office. He intended to follow her to Portsmouth, and also was to stand up with Fanny’s brother at his wedding. But the editor of the Gentlemen’s Magazine had engaged him to travel to Glasgow to report on the new steam-powered ship, the Comet, now ferrying passengers on the River Clyde at a speed of five miles per hour.
Mr. Gibson asked Fanny for her permission to take the assignment, and undertook to come to Portsmouth immediately afterwards. Flattered at being applied to, and fully resigned to the realities of Mr. Gibson’s profession, Fanny gave her consent, although she worried for his safety.
* * * * * * *
In the end, William Price and his bride did fulfil their promise to marry only after receiving the consent, if not the unreserved approbation, of their parents.
Sir Thomas was in fact disappointed, in point of dignity and fortune. He thought the match imprudent. If it were not for his knowledge of his nephew’s excellent character, he might have withheld his consent. His affection for his daughter, however, was stronger than his inclination to ensure the correctness of his prophecy, by forcing further hardships on the young couple, which might indeed bring them to grief. He did not withhold his approval or Julia’s dowry and he sincerely hoped that the youngest of his four children would know only perfect marital happiness.
Lady Bertram was not unduly discomposed by the thought of her daughter living on board a ship, being blessed with such a paucity of imagination that she could not long dwell upon the potential inconveniences or dangers, or even summon them up in her mind with any force or clarity.
Upon receiving congratulatory letters from her sister and brother-in-law, to whom she owed so much in the way of assistance to her family, Mrs. Price finally resigned herself to the wedding. The loss of her husband, followed by the loss of a beloved son to matrimony, gave her a distinction amongst her neighbours and friends—their respect for her sufferings was her finest consolation. The arrival of Julia’s elaborate gown from Norfolk stamped the event as inevitable, although Mrs. Price, unlike Fanny, did not exert herself to help alter the gown in time for the ceremony.
Fanny was with Julia, in her room at the Crown, measuring the length of the skirt, when a commotion in the passageway announced Edmund’s arrival from Thornton Lacey. The reunion of brother and sister, on the eve of such a solemn occasion, called forth a few tears of joy from the ladies. Edmund, with the patience and quiet kindness which so much denoted his character, listened as Julia pointed out all the features of her gown and accessories, and had he remembered to bring her best gloves, which she had forgotten to pack?
He brought the gloves and more besides, a very kind and conciliatory letter from Mr. Meriwether, expressing his disappointment, but wishing her every happiness, and even, most handsomely, urging her not to feel remorse over having broken her engagement to him. “It is for the best,” he wrote, “that you examined your feelings and acknowledged your scruples before our wedding. Please rest assured, Miss Bertram, that I could never have been happy, knowing of your regrets, had you felt yourself obliged to marry me.”
The generous sentiments of this letter helped to lift a disagreeable burden from Julia’s conscience, and there was nothing left for her to do but to be completely happy. In the fullness of that relief, she privately confessed to Edmund what she had kept secret heretofore—that Mary, his estranged wife, had been the one to introduce her to Mr. Meriwether, that she had promoted the match with every argument in her power, with the aim of removing Julia from Thornton Lacey.
Edmund heard her gravely and quietly, and said only ‘he would write to Mary, and ask to meet with her.’
“I think she desires a reconciliation, Edmund—will you? Is that your wish, also?”
“I would be a contemptible hypocrite, Julia, if I did not give myself the same advice I am obliged to give to my parishioners. Our church teaches that marriage is indissoluble. And as far as the world
