Susan better understood the gravity of the matter, and like Fanny, was grave and silent throughout dinner. Betsey and Charles regarded the whole thing as a lark; Mr. Gibson, so esteemed by them both, now acquired an additional fascination, as though he had been a highwayman or a pirate. The prospect of visiting him in his cell, perhaps with a file or a dagger secreted about their persons, formed the chief topic of their conversation that evening.
Fanny passed the night bereft of sleep while she examined her own feelings. The images which arose irresistibly in her imagination filled her with both horror and shame. Mr. Gibson, the accused in a court of law, made to stand at the bar, with a bewigged judge staring down at him, curious and vulgar spectators in the galleries who would probably hold him in even greater contempt for his not being a Yorkshire man like themselves. Perhaps he would be wearing leg shackles or manacles!
The following morning, a letter arrived by express from Mr. Gibson; he had wanted to be the first to break the news to her, but not only was his message too late to soften the blow, his eloquence failed him. He could not, would not, concede that he ought to have tempered his language and his condemnation of the government. He could not, would not, retract a word he had published.
The trial was to be held in March, at the next quarter sessions in York.
Fanny did not flatter herself with hopeful prognostications of the outcome. He would be found guilty—because as the law stood, he was guilty—heavily fined, and sentenced to prison.
Her own reflections confused and dismayed her. But for her father’s sudden demise last summer, she and Mr. Gibson would in all probability be married by now. For better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, Fanny murmured to herself. Was she prepared to follow William Gibson wherever he might choose to go? Was this the life she wanted—a life of uncertainty, surprises, alarms and fears?
And if she were his wife, would Mr. Gibson have refrained, at her request, from going to York in the first place? She doubted it. Mr. Gibson must have something to fight for; he must have a calling, a cause, as his first object. He himself often acknowledged as much, sometimes playfully, sometimes in earnest. His pursuits might come ahead of domestic tranquillity and the wishes of his wife. This was the price of marrying a public man, an extraordinary man. Was she prepared to pay it?
After several days of the acutest anxiety and misery, a letter came to her from Norfolk, bearing the handwriting of her uncle, Sir Thomas. It had been many years since she had ceased to be afraid of her uncle, of desiring his good opinion but being too timid to make herself better known to him. More recently, they had become very good friends but now—oh! how she dreaded the contents of that letter!
Fanny waited until everyone else in the household had retired to bed, and she took to her mother’s rocking chair by the fire to open and read it:
My dear Fanny,
The subject of this communication can come as no surprise to you. The nearness of our connection, the fears I have for your happiness and credit in the world authorizes me to say, I hope and expect to receive your assurance that you have renounced your ties to Mr. Gibson.
I lay it down as a maxim that a man who flouts the laws of his own country, on whatever pretext, upon whatever supposed principle of natural justice, will not scruple to abandon any other undertaking, as it suits him. If he holds himself above being bound to observe the law, if he elects to substitute his own judgement for that of the persons appointed by God to rule over him, and if he will not subordinate his inclinations to the established customs and usages of his country, what reliance can his wife place upon his assurances of fidelity and support? What other vows will he not ignore as his passion or his fancy dictate?
Thus I appeal, my dear Fanny, to your sense of what you owe to yourself. But more than this, I must ask you to remember your duty to your family. Consider that your own mother disobliged her family by marrying your late father. Consider what the consequences were—what her life has been, compared to what it might have been.
Think of your aunt, Lady Bertram—will you ask her to acknowledge a criminal as a near relation? Think of the welfare of your brothers and sisters—their reputations will surely be injured by such a connection. Preferment for your brothers, respectable marriages for your sisters—
Fanny gasped in pain. She had considered the possibility that her family might suffer as a result of an association with Mr. Gibson but here it was, confirmed by her uncle’s better knowledge of the world.
He could have chosen no more effectual argument with her, no surer way of appealing to her conscience. Her tears flowed freely—she could scarcely make out the conclusion of the letter...
You were guilty of a great and harmful imprudence when you allowed Henry Crawford to masquerade as your husband. Your affection for your brother William and your desire to assist his career overpowered your principles. I appeal to those same strong domestic affections, my dear Fanny, to guide you now, however painful the sacrifice may be. Do not draw further opprobrium upon
