That night I wrote to Fanny, copying out my letter from the scrawling
draft from which I am copying it now:--
"DEAR FANNY,--I have given Mr Crimble your message; first, exactly
in your own words, though he did not quite hear them, and then,
leaving out a little. You may be angry at what I am going to
say--but I am quite sure you ought to answer him at _once_. Fanny,
he's _dreadfully_ fond of you. I never even dreamed people were
like that--in such torture for what can't be, unless you mean you
_do_ care, but are too proud to tell him so. If he knows you have
no heart for him, he may soon be better. This sounds hateful. But I
am not such a pin in a pincushion as not to know that even the
greatest sorrows and disappointments wear out. Why, isn't that
beech-tree we sat under a kind of cannibal of its own dead leaves?
"Your private letter is quite safe; though I prefer not to burn
it--indeed, _cannot_ burn it. You know how I have longed for it.
But please, if possible, don't send me two in future. It doesn't
seem fair; and your mother knew already about our star-gazing. You
see, how else could the door have been bolted!! But it's best to
have been found out--next, I mean, to telling oneself.
"What day are you coming home? I look at it, as if it were a
lighthouse--even though it is out of sight. Shall we go on with
_Wuthering Heights_ when you do come? I saw the 'dazzling'
moon--but there, Fanny, what I want most to beg of you is to write
to Mr. Crimble--all that you feel, even if not all that you think.
No, perhaps I mean the reverse. He must have been wondering about
you long before I began to. And there it was, all sunken in; no one
could have guessed his longing by looking at him. I am afraid it
must affect his health.
"And now good-bye. I have made a vow to myself not to think into
things too much. Your affectionate friend (as much of her as there
is)--
"MIDGETINA.
"PS.--Please tell me the _day_ you are coming; and that shall be my
birthday."