Edmund Bertram's Diary

And so, I am back at Mansfield Park, with all the business of the parish to think of, for which I am grateful, as there is nothing I can do now with regard to Mary but wait for her to learn her own mind.

Thursday 23 March

Realizing I had neglected Fanny shameful y, I wrote to her this morning, apologizing for my tardiness in writing and telling her that, if I could have sent a few happy lines, I would have done so straightaway.

I meant to ask her how she was and give her all the London and Mansfield news, but speaking to her, through the medium of the letter, I found myself pouring out my feelings. I am returned to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are much weaker, for Mary’s friends 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 principal y 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, 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. 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. Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it; but till I am refused, I can never cease to try for her. This is the truth.

I have sometimes thought of going to London again after Easter, and sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield. But June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. 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. My greatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distance unable to help my own cause. I must think this matter over a little.

I laid my quill aside, wishing I had Fanny to talk to, instead of having her so far distant. As I read over what I had written, I realized I had spoken of my own concerns and nothing else. Such a letter would surely be enough to tire even Fanny’s friendship, so I picked up my quill and continued with news I knew must give her pleasure.

I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and hear of Crawford. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind, and acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality.

I hoped this would make her think more kindly of him, for to remember her when all the pleasures of London were distracting him was a sign of no ordinary attachment. I told her of Maria:

There is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well together — and Julia —

Julia seems to enjoy London exceedingly — and then Mansfield — We are not a lively party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I can express — before finishing with, Yours ever, my dearest Fanny.

I sealed the letter and my father franked it, then I went over to Thornton Lacey and saw what had been done to the house, before attending to parish business.

Tuesday 28 March

I made up my mind to it, and this morning I began my letter to Mary. I had scarcely writ en a line, however, when something happened which put everything else out of my mind. My father had a letter from a physician in Newmarket, telling us that Tom had had a fall, and that there was worse, for as a consequence of neglect and drink, the fall had led to a fever. Tom was on his own, for his friends had deserted him. I was alarmed, and said I would go to him at once. My father said he would write to my sisters and let them know the news. I travel ed quickly, and now here I am in Newmarket, and not at all sanguine. Tom is much worse than I expected. He did not know me when I walked in to the room. His physician said he was not to be moved, and I agreed it must not be thought of.

I wrote to my father, but played down my fears, saying only that Tom was ill but that I thought he would soon be well enough to be brought home.

Thursday 30 March

Tom continued feverish and there was no chance of my taking him home, for he was too ill to be moved. I wished he would recognize me, but his eyes opened rarely, and when they did, I do not believe he saw anything at all.

APRIL

Saturday 1 April

There was some improvement in Tom’s condition today. The fever seemed less, and for the first time I felt there was hope, real hope, that he would recover.

Tuesday 4 April