Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an object to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own importance with her than any one else at Mansfield—what was there to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark ones. And being always with her, talking confidentially, his feelings in that favourable state which a recent disappointment gives, those soft light eyes soon obtained pre-eminence.

Having once set out on this road to happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or make his progress slow. There were no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity of temper.

Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no half-concealment, no self-deception on the present, no reliance on future improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny’s mental superiority. What must be his sense of it now, therefore?

She was of course only too good for him. But as nobody minds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and her encouragement soon followed. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it was still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success (though it remained for a later period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth).

His happiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a heart, must have been great and delightful. But there was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.

Fanny’s love of this lifetime.

She might always remember fondly a certain ancient pharaoh—indeed, there was a secret, age-old place in her heart in which there will always be a part of him, and a faint shadow of a beloved memory, permeated in deep, sweet sorrow. But in the here and now, Fanny Price had at last her true love.

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties for Edmund and Fanny, no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas’s wishes had even forestalled.