Chapter: At about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's immediate
danger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make his mother
perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his suffering,
helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinking beyond
what she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no aptitude at a hint,
Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world for a little medical
imposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint;
of course he would soon be well again. Lady Bertram could think nothing
less, and Fanny shared her aunt's security, till she received a few
lines from Edmund, written purposely to give her a clearer idea of his
brother's situation, and acquaint her with the apprehensions which
he and his father had imbibed from the physician with respect to some
strong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the frame on the departure
of the fever. They judged it best that Lady Bertram should not be
harassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded;
but there was no reason why Fanny should not know the truth. They were
apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom
in a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram's sheets of paper
could do. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have
described, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who
was not more useful at times to her son. She could do nothing but glide
in quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked to, or
read to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him by
her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring down his conversation or
his voice to the level of irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all in
all. Fanny would certainly believe him so at least, and must find that
her estimation of him was higher than ever when he appeared as the
attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. There was not only
the debility of recent illness to assist: there was also, as she now
learnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and raise,
and her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be properly
guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope than
fear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss
Crawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to her
selfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only
son.

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund's
letter had this postscript. "On the subject of my last, I had actually
begun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I have now changed
my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is better,
I shall go."

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely any
change, till Easter. A line occasionally added by Edmund to his
mother's letter was enough for Fanny's information. Tom's amendment was
alarmingly slow.

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully
considered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving
Portsmouth till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her
return--nothing even of the going to London, which was to precede
her return. Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no
notice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed
he could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay
to her. The end of April was coming on; it would soon be almost three
months, instead of two, that she had been absent from them all, and that
her days had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved them
too well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could yet say
when there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such
as to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium for ever before her.
"With what intense desire she wants her home," was continually on her
tongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not
suppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her
home, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had
been very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to
Mansfield. _That_ was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield
was home. They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of her secret
meditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her than to find her
aunt using the same language: "I cannot but say I much regret your being
from home at this distressing time, so very trying to my spirits. I
trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent from home so
long again," were most delightful sentences to her. Still, however, it
was her private regale. Delicacy to her parents made her careful not to
betray such a preference of her uncle's house. It was always: "When I go
back into Northamptonshire, or when I return to Mansfield, I shall do
so and so." For a great while it was so, but at last the longing grew
stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found herself talking of what
she should do when she went home before she was aware. She reproached
herself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards her father and mother.
She need not have been uneasy. There was no sign of displeasure, or even
of hearing her. They were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield.
She was as welcome to wish herself there as to be there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not
known before what pleasures she _had_ to lose in passing March and April
in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress
of vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body and mind,
she had derived from watching the advance of that season which cannot,
in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing its increasing
beauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest divisions of her
aunt's garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle's plantations, and
the glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to
be losing them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise,
to have confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty,
freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse: but even these
incitements to regret were feeble, compared with what arose from the
conviction of being missed by her best friends, and the longing to be
useful to those who were wanting her!

Could she have been at home, she might have been of service to every
creature in the house. She felt that she must have been of use to all.
To all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it
only in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from
the evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless, officious
companion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to enhance her own
importance, her being there would have been a general good. She loved to
fancy how she could have read to her aunt, how she could have talked to
her, and tried at once to make her feel the blessing of what was, and
prepare her mind for what might be; and how many walks up and down
stairs she might have saved her, and how many messages she might have
carried.

It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with remaining
in London at such a time, through an illness which had now, under
different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. _They_ might return
to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to
_them_, and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away.
If Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was
certainly able to quit London whenever she chose. It appeared from one
of her aunt's letters that Julia had offered to return if wanted, but
this was all. It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war
with all respectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss
Crawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had been
respectable, the most respectable part of her character; her friendship
for herself had at least been blameless. Where was either sentiment now?
It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her, that she had
some reason to think lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt
on. It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss Crawford or of
her other connexions in town, except through Mansfield, and she was
beginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr. Crawford had
gone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might never hear from
his sister any more this spring, when the following letter was received
to revive old and create some new sensations--

"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and
behave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest request
and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated
better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I
want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt,
are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to 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. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of Mrs.
Rushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily,
however, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite
inclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to
determine whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She
had a rule to apply to, which settled everything. Her awe of her uncle,
and her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to
her what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal. If he
wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early return was
a presumption which hardly anything would have seemed to justify. She
thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. "Her uncle,
she understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's illness had
continued so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary,
she must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present, and that she
should be felt an encumbrance."

Her representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly
according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would convey
to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything she was
wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed,
under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was all
the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate himself
upon. She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but money.

 Tom begins to recover slowly and Lady Bertram is happy once again. However, Edmund then writes Fanny a quick note to tell her the truth about Tom's condition: he still has some serious health problems and might not make it. He and his dad decide not to tell Lady Bertram about this so as to not worry her even more. Tom may have consumption, which is the old-fashioned term for tuberculosis, a disease of the lungs. This was a very dangerous and incurable disease during this time period. Edmund also notes that he's focusing on Tom now and will go see Mary in person when he's able, rather than propose to her in a letter. Easter comes and goes and no one comes to get Fanny. Fanny realizes that Mansfield Park is her true home and she longs to go back. She doesn't write the Crawfords to come get her, though. With Fanny's strong desire to go home, she's pretty shocked that Maria and Julia don't bother going back to see about Tom even though they're able to. Julia is having too much fun in London to leave. Another letter from Mary arrives - she offers her condolences about Tom and asks for an update on his condition. But then she notes that it may be a blessing in disguise, and that Edmund would make a really super Sir Edmund Bertram one day. Julia's still in London but Maria has gone off to visit some other friends in the country. Henry begs Fanny to write and says he'll come get her and take her to Mansfield Park so they can all check on Tom together. Fanny is disgusted by Mary's insinuations about how great it would be for Edmund to be the only Bertram son and inherit all the money. Fanny wants to go to Mansfield Park really badly, but she still refuses to ask the Crawfords to take her.

