th,
and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were
married, for my poor friend's sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be
about as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was a most
desirable match for Janet at the time. We were all delighted. She could
not do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing;
but he turns out ill-tempered and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman,
a beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.
And my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how
to make the best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say
nothing worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call
to mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even
Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain
consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there _is_
attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. I shall
be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas
Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet has
been sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side:
she did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of
foresight. She took three days to consider of his proposals, and during
those three days asked the advice of everybody connected with her whose
opinion was worth having, and especially applied to my late dear aunt,
whose knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally and
deservedly looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance, and
she was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were
a security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to say for my
friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake
of that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as
Mr. Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character.
I _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even
the air of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye,
Flora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I
to attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love
with him, I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible
Fanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you
so insensible as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are