“You are very patient with my mother,” said Fanny complacently, taking his arm, “and I fancy you will do as well when you meet my uncle.”
“You mean you hope I shall resist the urge to tell him when I disagree with him,” said Mr. Gibson. “I think I can do that, if we keep our visit to Everingham brief enough. To have acquired so very high a degree of self-control by the early age of six-and-thirty augurs well for the future development of my character, don’t you think?”
Fanny nodded. “But do not suppose I am scheming to change you or reform you. I will take you, Mr. Gibson, just as you are.”
Mr. Gibson covered Fanny’s hand with his own, and said simply, “for which I thank you. I may be a writer, but when it comes to the woman I love, I cannot find the words to express what you mean to me—what you have always meant to me. And how else can I prove my devotion? How do I pay court to a woman who is indifferent to jewellery or finery?”
“Perhaps I am not entirely indifferent,” said Fanny calmly, “when the means are in proportion.”
She met his eye, they laughed together, and he exclaimed, “How I have missed being with you, Fanny! I missed you so miserably, and so I tried to blame you. I knew in losing you, I had lost the one woman I could love, and it was my own fault.”
This of course was not the first time since their reconciliation when Fanny had been assured of his constancy and his remorse, but to lovers in the first raptures of blissful reunion, such pledges of devotion are never unwelcome. Nor did Fanny hesitate to ask again, “you do not suppose I blame you, or resent the past?”
“You are too good—and I know that,” answered Mr. Gibson warmly. “You have forgiven me for demonstrating, in the most callous and unfeeling way, what little value I once placed upon your opinions, your feelings, your comfort.”
“Oh no!” Fanny protested. “That is much too harsh. I would say rather, you have forgiven me for being over-timid.”
“If only I had written to you from prison!” Mr. Gibson added in a tone of deep emotion. “You cannot know how many hours I spent, lamenting my loss.”
“But at that same time,” Fanny pointed out, “you published your novel and became famous. So I persuaded myself you must have rejoiced to escape your connection with me. When we first met, you were a poet without even a greatcoat to wear in the winter!”
“Don’t you see, my dearest?” answered Mr. Gibson tenderly. “I know you esteem me for myself—not for my money, not for my fame, such as it is. And—confess it, Fanny, I think you loved me then, just a little.”
Fanny blushed, naturally. “Indeed I had never met anyone like you.”
“Nor I. I have never met a woman to compare with you. And at last, here we are.”
Fanny looked around. “Where?”
“Do you see we have rounded the shrubbery here, and are out of sight of the houses? Let me show you, Fanny, what sort of an unreformed character you are about to marry.” And he gathered her up in his arms, and kissed her most decisively.
* * * * * * *
The contemplation of Edmund’s situation was the only blight upon Fanny’s perfect contentment as she entered upon married life with Mr. Gibson. At a time when she most earnestly desired to hear news of him, she received few letters from him. But fortunately, she now had another correspondent in Mrs. Bellingham, who kept her advised of the gossip circulating through Mansfield and Thornton Lacey.
For, it was the united opinion of the inhabitants of both of those towns, that Miss Owen deserved to attach the Reverend Bertram. Her father was a clergyman, her brother was also a clergyman, it followed that Reverend Bertram was her lawful property; he fairly belonged to her. Mrs. Norris began to hint, only to a few friends, that a wedding might take place, so soon as the proper interval of time was passed. Until then, it would not do to be spoken of.
The proper interval of time did pass, although Edmund could not really name the day on which his regard and respect for Portia Owen ripened into warmer feelings. On her side, of course, she could not remember a time when she did not prefer Edmund Bertram to any man she had ever met. There was, in the end, quite enough love between the two of them to establish a marriage upon.
Anna Imogen and her brothers, in defiance of tradition, were delighted in the acquisition of a step-mother, and for Edmund, married to a very different kind of wife than his first, home became a place of tranquillity and pleasure.
Edmund Bertram’s school continued to prosper, though his genial philosophy was sorely tested when his sister Maria enrolled her son Henry there.
Mr. Gibson purchased a small dwelling in London, but this was not for himself and Fanny. It was for John Price, so he could bring his bride Prudence to a home from which the bailiffs could never evict them.
Fanny and Mr. Gibson made their principal home just outside of London, where the air was fresher and they could walk together in the country, living just the life they had planned together when they used to walk upon the Ramparts in Portsmouth, many years before. The busy, useful, cheerful life they had sketched out in those days became a reality in every respect and their recollection of their past difficulties only served to add sweetness to their happiness in after days.
THE END
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