Prudence continued to sing the praises of Mr. Gibson as they walked to Finsbury Square. “He is really so very—-so very natural, and charming! I think some gentlemen look the better for wearing spectacles. There is something altogether pleasing about his countenance, especially his eyes. And his smile. And his voice is so pleasant.”
“He is always interesting to converse with,” John agreed. “And there are few people one can say that about.”
It seemed to John that Prudence was not really talking to him, but rather to herself, as she went on, “I should never have imagined that I would one day be assisting a famous writer! This is the most exciting thing which has ever happened to me!”
And the more she spoke, and spoke of Mr. Gibson, his rare qualities and his goodness, the more John found himself wishing she might take up some other subject.
“Prudence, have you heard the theory about lightning rods?” he asked. “It is thought that the use of lightning rods may be the reason for the strange fluctuations in the weather, because they divert the electrical power of the atmosphere from its natural course—”
“Oh! How interesting!” said Prudence. “Does the weather only change in those countries which employ lightning rods on their buildings, as compared to the more backward places? I wonder what Mr. Gibson would say to that.”
“He is not an expert on everything in the world, you know,” said John. “He did not even finish university—I suppose he did not tell you that. He left early.”
Prudence slowed, and looked at him with some surprise.
“John, why are you speaking against Mr. Gibson? He spoke so well of you.”
“I just think, if someone is fortunate enough to go to university, he ought to finish what he started. I should have given a great deal to be able to go.”
“Of course you would have!” Prudence was quiet for a little while, and then asked, “so, why did he leave university? I dare say it is because he lacked the funds.”
“No, he said it was because his uncle was paying the fees, and his uncle intended him to go into the law, and he did not want to, so—”
“So he would not take monies from his uncle under false pretences,” cried Prudence triumphantly. “So you see, that only shows how refined and noble his principles are! Imagine if he had let his uncle pay for his education and then refused to do as he wished! That would have been wrong.”
John could not think of anything to say in defence of defrauding the uncle, so he said nothing.
The first thing that met John’s eye when he arrived at Lackington’s was a prominent display in the shop window of Steam & Sagacity, along with printed engravings of “the illustrious author, now confined in prison.”
“Oh! I must buy one of those prints!” exclaimed Prudence. “I wonder, if I took it to Mr. Gibson, would he—”
“Let us not speak of Mr. Gibson any more,” said John crossly. “He is not the only thing worth talking about, you know.”
“Why, John,” Prudence cried, “I do believe you are jealous.”
To his utter astonishment, she leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“You have no need to be,” she said.
Chapter 7: Bristol, Spring 1814
It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not known before what pleasures she had to lose in passing March and April in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress of vegetation had delighted her… To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse.
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, Chapter XLV
Even a less acute person than Mrs. Butters would have detected from Fanny’s correspondence in the months following Mr. Gibson’s arrest, that she suffered from want of spirits. Fanny wrote of her happiness in her sister’s marriage, of joining a new lending library, of sewing new caps and frocks for everyone, but there was a reserve, a sadness, which could not be concealed.
The kindly old widow believed Fanny needed a change of scene and better occupation for her mind. She was more right than she knew.
In her time at Portsmouth, Fanny suffered bodily, no less than mentally. She acquired a tenacious cough, and her complexion lost its bloom, though she doggedly clung to her daily round of domestic occupations. As there was no-one at home interested in hearing anything she had to say, she spoke less and less, and withdrew into herself.
Mrs. Butters wanted Fanny to make her home with her in Bristol—she cared not what Cecilia Butters might have to say about it. But the invitation was delayed for some time, for Mrs. Butters first resided with her niece Honoria Smallridge while selecting a new home, a home which required some repair before she could take occupation of it, and these repairs took twice as long and cost three times as much as the widow had bargained for. At length, however, she wrote to Fanny—an invitation which was greeted by Fanny as a schoolboy greets the holiday, perhaps even as a prisoner—but Fanny could not think of herself as a prisoner, not when there was another prisoner to think of.
Her own preference, and a candid regard for her own health and happiness, of course inclined Fanny to go. Moreover, she honestly believed it was a
