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feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate
recovery. I thought little of his illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss
with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had
to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most
alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included
in that part, that discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly
informed. I need not say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but the report is
so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young man cut off in the flower
of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on
the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed a
physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to die, there will be two poor young men less in the world; and
with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could fall into
no hands more deserving of them. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few
days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire
after his name. With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by return
of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead.
And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, they are
not only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether ’Sir Edmund’
would not do more good with all the Bertram property than any other possible ’Sir.’ Had the Grants been
at home I would not have troubled you, but you are now the only one I can apply to for the truth, his
sisters not being within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham
(as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins who live near Bedford
Square, but I forget their name and street. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I should still
prefer you, because it strikes me that they have all along been so unwilling to have their own amusements
cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.’s Easter holidays will not last much longer; no
doubt they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husband away, she
can have nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down to Bath, to fetch
his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one house? Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing
to say from him. Do not you think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?—
Yours ever, Mary.”
“I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he brings no intelligence to prevent
my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole
Street to-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy with any queer fancies because
he has been spending a few days at Richmond. He does it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody
but you. At this very moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the means for doing
so, and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said
at Portsmouth about our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all my soul. Dear Fanny, write
directly, and tell us to come. It will do us all good. He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and
be no trouble to our friends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see them all again, and a
little addition of society might be of infinite use to them; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be
so wanted there, that you cannot in conscience—conscientious as you are— keep away, when you have
the means of returning. I have not time or patience to give half Henry’s messages; be satisfied that the
spirit of each and every one is unalterable affection.” Fanny’s disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme reluctance to bring the writer of it and
her cousin Edmund together, would have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially whether
the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself, individually, it was most tempting. To be finding
herself, perhaps within three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the greatest felicity, but it
would have been a material drawback to be owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct,
at the present moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister’s feelings, the brother’s conduct, her
cold-hearted ambition, his thoughtless vanity.
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