I do not like Mrs. Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married
entirely from convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her
marriage, places her disappointment not to faults of judgment, or
temper, or disproportion of age, but to her being, after all, less
affluent than many of her acquaintance, especially than her sister,
Lady Stornaway, and is the determined supporter of everything mercenary
and ambitious, provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough. I
look upon her intimacy with those two sisters as the greatest
misfortune of her life and mine. They have been leading her astray for
years. Could she be detached from them!--and sometimes I do not
despair of it, for the affection appears to me principally on their
side. They are very fond of her; but I am sure she does not love them
as she loves you. When I think of her great attachment to you, indeed,
and the whole of her judicious, upright conduct as a sister, she
appears a very different creature, capable of everything noble, and I
am ready to blame myself for a too harsh construction of a playful
manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is the only woman in the
world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If I did not believe that
she had some regard for me, of course I should not say this, but I do
believe it. I am convinced that she is not without a decided
preference. I have no jealousy of any individual. It is the influence
of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous of. It is the
habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher than her own
fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes united could
authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could better bear
to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my profession.
That would only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices, which, in
fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if I am refused, that, I
think, will be the honest motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are not so
strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly as they arise, my
dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it will not
be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once begun, it is a
pleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her up.
Connected as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary
Crawford would be to give up the society of some of those most dear to
me; to banish myself from the very houses and friends whom, under any
other distress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of Mary I
must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were
it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear
it, and how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart, and in the
course of a few years--but I am writing nonsense. Were I refused, I
must bear it; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her. This is
the truth. The only question is how? What may be the likeliest
means? I have sometimes thought of going to London again after Easter,
and sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield.
Even now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but
June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I
have nearly determined on explaining myself by letter. To be at an
early certainty is a material object. My present state is miserably
irksome. Considering everything, I think a letter will be decidedly
the best method of explanation. I shall be able to write much that I
could not say, and shall be giving her time for reflection before she
resolves on her answer, and I am less afraid of the result of
reflection than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My
greatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a
distance unable to help my own cause. A letter exposes to all the evil
of consultation, and where the mind is anything short of perfect
decision, an adviser may, in an unlucky moment, lead it to do what it
may afterwards regret. I must think this matter over a little. This
long letter, full of my own concerns alone, will be enough to tire even
the friendship of a Fanny. The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs.
Fraser's party. I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and
hear of him. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows
his own mind, and acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality.
I could not see him and my eldest sister in the same room without
recollecting what you once told me, and I acknowledge that they did not
meet as friends. There was marked coolness on her side. They scarcely
spoke. I saw him draw back surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs.
Rushworth should resent any former supposed slight to Miss Bertram.
You will wish to hear my opinion of Maria's degree of comfort as a
wife. There is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on
pretty well together. I dined twice in Wimpole Street, and might have
been there oftener, but it is mortifying to be with Rushworth as a
brother. Julia seems to enjoy London exceedingly. I had little
enjoyment there, but have less here. We are not a lively party. You
are very much wanted. I miss you more than I can express. My mother
desires her best love, and hopes to hear from you soon. She talks of
you almost every hour, and I am sorry to find how many weeks more she
is likely to be without you. My father means to fetch you himself, but
it will not be till after Easter, when he has business in town. You
are happy at Portsmouth, I hope, but this must not be a yearly visit.
I want you at home, that I may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey.
I have little heart for extensive improvements till I know that it will
ever have a mistress. I think I shall certainly write. It is quite
settled that the Grants go to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday. I
am glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to be fit for anybody; but
your aunt seems to feel out of luck that such an article of Mansfield
news should fall to my pen instead of hers.--Yours ever, my dearest
Fanny."