“I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back. But I know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience, dearest Fanny. In every sense possible. I ask you for your forgiveness in not heeding you sooner, all these many sorrowful months ago. And now, to say this has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done.”[36]

And such was Fanny’s dependence on his words, that for five minutes she thought they had done[37]. Then, however, it all came on again, or something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram’s rousing thoroughly up could really close such a conversation.

Till that happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had attached him with unearthly means, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier, instead of the dark clutches of the vampire mistress of the Admiral.

Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to Edmund’s knowledge of her real character. She disclosed that his brother’s state of health (and possible demise, as Miss Crawford had cheerfully come to hope) might have had a strong influence in heightening that lady’s wish for a complete reconciliation.

This was not an agreeable intimation for Edmund. Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter if she had been more disinterested in material attachments. But Edmund’s vanity was not of a strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe that Tom’s illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this consoling thought that she had certainly been more attached to him than could have been expected—for his sake she had been closer to doing right.

Fanny thought exactly the same. They were also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect—the indelible impression, which such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate some of his sufferings. Still, it was a sort of thing which he could never entirely overcome. And as to his ever meeting with any other woman who could—it was too impossible to be named but with indignation.

Fanny’s friendship was all that he had to cling to.

And hearing this from Edmund—again, after all the understandings and revelations that had just come to pass—Fanny’s loving heart sank a little, once more.

Chapter XLVIII

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest. And that includes mummies, Gentle Reader—though, unfortunately not quite yet—