Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny's hands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards the fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the contents—

Mansfield Park

My Dear Fanny—Excuse me that I have not written before. Crawford told me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it impossible to write from London, and persuaded myself that you would understand my silence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not have been wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are much weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of you as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you enough of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will not be prevented, however, from making my own communication. Our confidences in you need not clash. I ask no questions. There is something soothing in the idea that we have the same friend, and that whatever unhappy differences of opinion may exist between us, we are united in our love of you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how things now are, and what are my present plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have been returned since Saturday. I was three weeks in London, and saw her (for London) very often. I had every attention from the Frasers that could be reasonably expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with me hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her manner, however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been different when I did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from the very first she was altered; my first reception was so unlike what I had hoped, that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly. I need not particularise. You know the weak side of her character, and may imagine the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me. She was in high spirits, and surrounded by those who were giving all the support of their own bad sense to her too lively mind. 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.

“I never will—no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again,” was Fanny's secret declaration as she finished this. “What do they bring but disappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bear it? And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!”

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but she was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main subject of the letter—there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was almost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. “There is no good in this delay,” said she. “Why is not it settled? He is blinded, and nothing will open his eyes, nothing can, after having had truths before him so long in vain. He will marry her, and be poor and miserable. God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be respectable!” She looked over the letter again. “‘So very fond of me!’ 'tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her brother. Her friends leading her astray for years! She is quite as likely to have led them astray. They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another; but if they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the less likely to have been hurt, except by their flattery.‘The only woman in the world whom he could ever think of as a wife.’ I firmly believe it. It is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or refused, his heart is wedded to her forever. ‘The loss of Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.’ Edmund, you do not know me. The families would never be connected if you did not connect them. Oh, write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end of this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.”

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long guiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was soon more softened and sorrowful. His warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment, touched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was a letter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world, and which could never be valued enough. This was the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter writing, without having much to say, which will include a large proportion of the female world at least, must feel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having such a capital piece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath, occur at a time when she could make no advantage of it, and will admit that it must have been very mortifying to her to see it fall to the share of her thankless son, and treated as concisely as possible at the end of a long letter, instead of having it to spread over the largest part of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram rather shone in the epistolary line, having early in her marriage, from the want of other employment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's being in Parliament, got into the way of making and keeping correspondents, and formed for herself a very creditable, commonplace, amplifying style, so that a very little matter was enough for her; she could not do entirely without any; she must have something to write about, even to her niece, and being so soon to lose all the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms and Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon her to be deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she could put them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram's hour of good luck came. Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund's letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus—

My Dear Fanny—I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming intelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much concern.

This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to acquaint her with all the particulars of the Grants' intended journey, for the present intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for the pen for many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness of her eldest son, of which they had received notice by express a few hours before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where a neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever; and when the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by himself at the house of one of these young men to the comforts of sickness and solitude, and the attendance only of servants. Instead of being soon well enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his disorder increased considerably, and it was not long before he thought so ill of himself as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter despatched to Mansfield.

“This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,” observed her Ladyship, after giving the substance of it, “has agitated us exceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed and apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother immediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on this distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me. We shall greatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he will find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be apprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on every account, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to bear the removal without material inconvenience or injury. As I have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these distressing circumstances, I will write again very soon.”

Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm and genuine than her aunt's style of writing. She felt truly for them all. Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small party remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care, or almost every other. She could just find selfishness enough to wonder whether Edmund had written to Miss Crawford before this summons came, but no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate and disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did not neglect her; she wrote again and again; they were receiving frequent accounts from Edmund, and these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny, in the same diffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all following and producing each other at haphazard. It was a sort of playing at being frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not see had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably about agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually conveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered appearance. Then a letter which she had been previously preparing for Fanny was finished in a different style, in the language of real feeling and alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken. “He is just come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see him, that I do not know what to do. I am sure he has been very ill. Poor Tom. I am quite grieved for him, and very much frightened, and so is Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me. But Sir Thomas hopes he will be better tomorrow, and says we must consider his journey.”

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not soon over. Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and experience those comforts of home and family which had been little thought of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being conveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a week he was in a more alarming state than ever. They were all very seriously frightened. Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her niece, who might now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her time between suffering from that of today and looking forward to tomorrow's. Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin, her tenderness of heart made her feel that she could not spare him; and the purity of her principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how little useful, how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been.

Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common occasions. Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise. Nobody else could be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family above an hundred miles off—not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two, if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and now and then the quiet observation of, “My poor sister Bertram must be in a great deal of trouble.”

So long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were little more than nothing. An attachment, originally as tranquil as their tempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much for Lady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three or four Prices might have been swept away, any or all except Fanny and William, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about it; or perhaps might have caught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its being a very happy thing and a great blessing to their poor dear sister Price to have them so well provided for.

两个月的时间差不多已过去了七个星期，这时范妮才收到了那封信，她盼望已久的埃德蒙的来信。她打开了信，一见写得那么长，便料定信里会详细描写他如何幸福，尽情倾诉他对主宰他命运的那位幸运的人儿的千情万爱和溢美之词。内容如下：

曼斯菲尔德庄园

亲爱的范妮：

原谅我没有早些给你写信。克劳福德告诉我说，你在盼我来信，但我在伦敦时无法给你写，心想你能理解我为什么沉默。如果我有好消息报告，我是决不会不写的，可惜我没有什么好消息可以报告。若说我离开曼斯菲尔德的时候，心里还有把握的话，待回到曼斯菲尔德的时候，就不那么有把握了。我的希望已大大减少了。这一点你大概已经感觉到了。克劳福德小姐那么喜欢你，自然会向你剖白心迹，因此，我的心境如何，你大体上也会猜到。不过，这并不妨碍我直接写信告诉你。我们两人对你的信任不会发生冲突。我什么也不问了。我和她有一个共同的朋友，我们之间无论存在多么不幸的意见分歧，我们却一致地爱着你。想到这里，我就感到几分欣慰。我很乐意告诉你我现在的情况，以及我目前的计划，如果我可以说是还有计划的话。我是星期六回来的。我在伦敦住了三个星期。就伦敦的标准来说，我经常见到她。弗雷泽夫妇对我非常关心，这也是意料之中的。我知道我有些不理智，居然希望能像在曼斯菲尔德时那样来往。不过，问题不在见面次数的多少，而是她的态度。我见到她时要是发现她和以前有所不同，我也不会抱怨。但她从一开始就变了，接待我的态度完全出乎我的意料，我几乎要马上离开伦敦。具体情况我不必细说了。你知道她性格上的弱点，能想象得到她那使我感到痛苦的心情和表情。她兴高采烈，周围都是些思想不健康的人，她的思想本来就过于活跃，他们还要拼命怂恿她。我不喜欢弗雷泽太太。她是个冷酷无情、爱慕虚荣的女人。她完全是为了贪财而结婚的。她的婚姻显然是不幸的，但她认为这不幸不是由于她动机不纯、性情不好，以及双方年龄悬殊，而是由于她说到底不如她所认识的许多人有钱，特别是没有她妹妹斯托诺韦夫人有钱。因此，谁只要表现出一定程度的贪图钱财和爱慕虚荣，她就会起劲地为之推波助澜。克劳福德小姐和这姐妹俩关系亲密，我认为这是她和我生活中的最大不幸。多年来她们一直在把她往邪路上引。要是能把她跟她们拆开就好啦！有时候我觉得这并非办不到，因为据我看来，她们之间主要还是那姐妹俩情意深一些。她们非常喜欢她，但是我相信，她并不像爱你那样爱她们。我一想到她对你的深情厚谊，想到她作为小姑子表现得那么明白事理，那么心地光明，像是变成了另一个人，一个行为高尚的人，我真想责备自己不该对她过于苛求，她只不过性情活跃一些。我不能舍弃她，范妮。她是世界上我唯一想娶的女人。如果我认为她对我无意，我当然不会这么说，可我的确认为她对我有意。我相信她肯定喜欢我。我不嫉妒任何人，我嫉妒的是时髦世界对她的影响。我担心的是财富给人带来的习性。她的想法并没有超出她的财产所允许的范围，但是把我们的收入加在一起也维持不了她的需要。不过，即便如此，我也感到一种安慰。由于不够有钱而失去她，总比由于职业原因失去她，心里觉得好受些。这只能说明她还没有达到为了爱可以做出牺牲的地步。其实我也不该要求她为我做出牺牲。如果我遭到拒绝，我想这就是她的真实动机。我认为她的偏见没有以前那么深了。亲爱的范妮，我把我的想法如实地告诉了你。这些想法有时也许是互相矛盾的，却忠实地代表着我的思想。既然说开了头，我倒情愿把我的心思向你和盘托出。我不能舍弃她。我们交往已久，我想还要继续交往下去，舍弃了玛丽·克劳福德，就等于失去了几个最亲爱的朋友，就等于自绝于那些在我不幸时会给我带来安慰的房屋和朋友。失去玛丽，我觉得就意味着失去克劳福德和范妮。如果事情已定，我当真遭到了拒绝，我想我倒该知道如何忍受这个打击，知道如何削弱她对我心灵的控制——在几年的时间内——可我在胡说些什么呀——如果我遭到拒绝，我必须承受得住。在遭到拒绝之前，我决不会放弃努力。这才是正理。唯一的问题是如何争取？什么是最切实可行的办法？我有时想复活节后再去一趟伦敦，有时又想等她回曼斯菲尔德再说。就是现在，她还乐滋滋地说六月份要回曼斯菲尔德。不过，六月份还很遥远，我想我是要给她写信的。我差不多已经打定主意，通过书信来表明心迹。我的主要目标是早一点把事情弄个明白。我目前的处境实在让人烦恼。从各方面考虑，我觉得最好还是在信中解释。有好多话当面不便说，信里可以写。这样还可以让她从容考虑后再答复。我不怕她从容考虑后再答复，而怕她凭一时冲动匆匆答复。我想我就是这样的。我最大的危险是她征求弗雷泽太太的意见，而我离得太远，实在无能为力。她收到信后肯定会找人商量。在她下定决心之前，有人在这不幸的时刻出出主意，就会使她做出她日后可能后悔的事情。我要再考虑一下这件事。这么长的一封信，尽谈我个人的事，尽管范妮对我好，也会看得不耐烦的。我上次是在弗雷泽太太举办的舞会上见到克劳福德的。就我的耳闻目睹，我对他越来越满意。他丝毫没有动摇。他完全了解自己的心思，坚定不移地履行他的决心——这种品质真是难能可贵。我看见他和我大妹妹待在一间屋里，就不免想起你以前对我说的那些话，我可以告诉你，他们见面时关系并不融洽。我妹妹显然很冷淡。他们几乎都不说话。我看到克劳福德畏缩不前，张皇失措。拉什沃思太太还是伯特伦小姐时受过冷落，至今还耿耿于怀，使我感到遗憾。你也许想听一听玛丽亚婚后是否快活。看上去她没有什么不快活的。我想他们相处得很好。我在温普尔街吃过两次饭。本来还可以多去几次，但是和拉什沃思这样一个妹夫在一起，我觉得不光彩。朱莉娅似乎在伦敦玩得特别开心。我在那里就不怎么开心了，但回到这里就越发郁郁寡欢了。一家人死气沉沉。家里非常需要你。我无法用言语表达如何思念你。我母亲极其惦念你，盼你早日来信。她无时无刻不在念叨你，一想到还要过那么多个星期她才能见到你，我不禁为她难过。我父亲打算亲自去接你，但要等到复活节以后他去伦敦料理事务的时候。希望你在朴次茅斯过得快活，但今后不要每年都去。我要你待在家里，好就桑顿莱西的事情征求你的意见。我只有确知它会有一位女主人之后，才有心思去进行全面的改建。我想我一定会给你写信告之。格兰特夫妇已经确定去巴斯，准备星期一离开曼斯菲尔德。我为此感到高兴。我心情不好，不愿和任何人来往。不过，你姨妈似乎有点不走运，曼斯菲尔德这么一条重大新闻居然由我而不是由她来写信告诉你。

最亲爱的范妮，你永久的朋友

“我永远不——我决不希望再收到一封信，”范妮看完这封信后暗自宣告，“这些信除了失望和悲伤还能给我带来什么？复活节后才来接我！我怎么受得了啊？可怜的姨妈无时无刻不在念叨我呀！”

范妮竭力遏制这些思绪，可不到半分钟工夫，又冒出了一个念头：托马斯爵士对姨妈和她太不厚道。至于信里谈的主要问题——那也没有什么地方可以平息她的愤怒。她几乎对埃德蒙感到不满和气愤。“这样拖下去没有什么好处，”她说“为什么定不下来呢？他是什么也看不清了，也没有什么东西能使他睁开眼睛。事实摆在他面前那么久他都看不见，那就没有什么东西能打开他的眼睛。他就是要娶她，去过那可怜巴巴的苦日子。愿上帝保佑，不要让他因为受她的影响而失去体面！”她把信又读了一遍。“‘那么喜欢我！’完全是瞎说。她除了爱她自己和她哥哥以外，对谁都不爱。‘她的朋友们多年来一直把她往邪路上引！’很可能是她把她们往邪路上引。也许她们几个人在互相腐蚀。不过，如果她们喜欢她远远胜过她喜欢她们，那她受到的危害就应该少一些，只不过她们的恭维对她没起什么好作用。‘世界上我唯一想娶的女人！’这我完全相信。这番痴情将会左右他一辈子。不论对方接受他还是拒绝他，他的心已经永远交给她了。‘失去玛丽，我觉得就意味着失去克劳福德和范妮。’埃德蒙，你根本不了解我。如果不是你来做纽带，这两家人决不会联结在一起。噢！写吧，写吧。马上结束这种状况，别总这样悬在那里。定下来，承诺下来，让你自己受罪去吧。”

不过，这种情绪太接近于怨恨，不会长时间地支配范妮的自言自语。过了不久，她的怨气就消了，只剩下了伤心。他的热情关怀，他的亲切话语，他的坦诚相见，又深深触动了她的心弦。他对人人都太好了。总而言之，她太珍惜这封信了，简直把它当作无价之宝。这便是最后的结果。

凡是喜欢写信而又没有多少话可说的人，至少包括众多女性在内，必然都会同情伯特伦夫人，觉得曼斯菲尔德出现格兰特夫妇要走这样的特大新闻，她居然未能加以利用，还真有些不走运。他们会认为，这消息落到她那不知好歹的儿子手里，被他在信的结尾寥寥几笔带过，实在令人生气。若是由做母亲的来写，至少会洋洋洒洒地写上大半张。伯特伦夫人还就善于写信。原来，她在结婚初期，由于闲着无事可做，加上托马斯爵士常在国会，因此便养成了写信的习惯，练就了一种令人称道的、拉家常似的、洋洋洒洒的风格，一点点小事就够她写一封长信。当然，完全无事可写的时候，她也是写不出来的。她总得有点东西可写，即使对外甥女也是如此。她很快就要失去格兰特博士的痛风病和格兰特太太的上午拜访这些谈资为她写信提供的便利了，因为要剥夺她一次报道他们情况的机会，对她来说是很残忍的。

然而，她得到了很大的补偿。伯特伦夫人的幸运时刻来临了。范妮接到埃德蒙的信后没过几天，就收到了姨妈的一封来信，开头是这么写的：

亲爱的范妮：

我提笔告诉你一个非常惊人的消息，相信你一定非常关心。

这比提笔告诉她格兰特夫妇准备旅行的详情细节要强得多，因为这类消息真够伯伦特夫人挥笔报道好多天的。原来，她从几小时前收到的快信中获悉，她的大儿子病情严重。

汤姆和一帮年轻人从伦敦到纽马基特，从马上摔下来后没有马上就医，接着又大肆酗酒，结果发烧了。等众人散去，他已经不能动弹了，独自待在其中一个人的家里，病痛孤寂之中，只有仆人陪伴。他原希望马上病好去追赶他的朋友们，不想病情却大大加重了。没过多久，他觉得自己病情严重，便同意了医生的意见，给曼斯菲尔德发了一封信。伯特伦夫人讲完了主要内容之后又写道：

你可以想象得到，这不幸的消息使我们深为不安。我们不由得大为惊骇，为可怜的病人忧心如焚。托马斯爵士担心汤姆的病情危急，埃德蒙怀着一片深情，提出马上前去看护哥哥。不过，我要欣慰地告诉你，在这令人心急火燎的时刻，托马斯爵士不打算离开我，怕我会受不了。埃德蒙一走，我们剩下的几个人未免太可怜了。不过，我相信而且也希望，埃德蒙发现病人的病情没有我们想象的那么可怕，能很快把他带回曼斯菲尔德。托马斯爵士叫埃德蒙尽快把他带回来，认为从哪方面考虑，这都是个上策。我希望能很快把这可怜的病人接回来，而又不至于引起很大的不便，或造成很大的伤害。我深知你对我们的感情，亲爱的范妮。在这令人焦心的情况下，我会很快再给你写信。

范妮此时的感情还真比她姨妈的文风要热烈得多、真挚得多。她真替他们个个焦急。汤姆病情严重，埃德蒙去看护他，曼斯菲尔德剩下了可怜巴巴的几个人，她一心惦念着他们，别的什么也顾不得了，或者说几乎什么也顾不得了。她只有一点自私的念头，那就是猜测埃德蒙在接到消息之前，是否已经给克劳福德小姐写过信了，但是能久久盘踞在她心头的，都是纯真的感情和无私的焦虑。姨妈总是惦记着她，一封又一封地给她来信。他们不断收到埃德蒙的报告，姨妈又不断用她那冗赘的文体把情况转告范妮，信里依然混杂着推测、希望和忧虑，这些因素在乱糟糟地互相伴随，互相滋生。这是故作惊恐。伯特伦夫人没有亲眼看到的痛苦，对她的想象没有多大的影响。在汤姆被接回曼斯菲尔德，她亲眼看到他那变了样的容颜之前，她写起她的焦虑不安和可怜的病人来，心里总是觉得很轻松。后来，她给范妮写的一封信终于写好了，结尾的风格大不相同，用的是表达真实情感、真正惊恐的语言。这时，她写的正是她内心的话：

亲爱的范妮，他刚刚回来，已被抬到楼上。我见到他大吃一惊，不知道怎么办是好。我看得出他病得很厉害。可怜的汤姆，我真为他伤心，心里非常害怕，托马斯爵士也是如此。要是有你在这里安慰我，我该有多高兴。不过，托马斯爵士估计他明天会好一些，说我们应该把路途的因素考虑在内。

这时候，做母亲的心中激起的真正忧虑，没能很快消失。大概是由于太急于回到曼斯菲尔德，享受一下没灾没病时从不看重的家庭舒适条件，汤姆给过早地接回了家里，结果又发起烧来，整整一个星期，病情比以前更加严重。家里人都大为惊恐。伯特伦夫人每天都把自己的恐惧写信告诉外甥女，而这位外甥女现在可以说是完全靠信来生活，一天到晚不是沉浸在今天来信的痛苦中，就是在期盼明天的来信。她对大表哥没有什么特殊感情，但是出于恻隐之心，她又怕他短命。她从纯道德的角度替他担忧，觉得他这一生（显然）太无用，太挥霍无度。

无论在这种时候，还是在平常的情况下，只有苏珊陪伴她，听她诉说衷肠。苏珊总是愿意听，总能善解人意。别人谁也不会去关心这么一件与己无关的事情——一个一百英里之外的人家有人生了病——就连普莱斯太太也不会把这件事放在心上，只不过在看到女儿手里拿着信的时候简短地问上一两个问题，或者偶尔平心静气地说上一声：“我那可怜的伯特伦姐姐一定很难过。”

这么多年互不相见，双方的处境又大不相同，血缘情谊早已荡然无存。双方的感情原来就像她们的脾气一样平淡，现在只不过徒有虚名。普莱斯太太不会去管伯特伦夫人怎么样，伯特伦夫人也不会去管普莱斯太太怎么样。假如普莱斯家的孩子被大海吞掉了三四个，只要不是范妮和威廉，随便死了哪个，哪怕都死光，伯特伦夫人也不会放在心上；而诺里斯太太甚至还会貌似虔诚地说，这对她们可怜的普莱斯妹妹来说是件大好事，是莫大的幸运，因为这几个孩子今后再不缺吃少穿了。