Mansfield Park
anxiety. His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already
given him much uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing
but good. His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of
Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted,
would extend its respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund,
his strong good sense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for
utility, honour, and happiness to himself and all his connexions. He
was to be a clergyman.
Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested,
Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs.
Price: he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her
sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny,
though almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the
truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of
anything at all promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once
only, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being with
William. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her
ever going amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed
to want her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a
sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire
before he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their
exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and
moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine
views and spirits of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the
girl when he left her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas
holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin
Edmund; and he told her such charming things of what William was to do,
and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession, as made her
gradually admit that the separation might have some use. Edmund’s
friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change
in his kind dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities
of proving them. Without any display of doing more than the rest, or
any fear of doing too much, he was always true to her interests, and
considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities
understood, and to conquer the diffidence which prevented their being
more apparent; giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement.
Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not
bring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest
importance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its
pleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as
well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly
directed, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French,
and heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended the
books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and
corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of
what she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In
return for such services she loved him better than anybody in the world
except William: her heart was divided between the two.
CHAPTER III
The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr.
Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily
introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the
Parsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house
of Sir Thomas’s in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of
her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and
for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter
economy.
The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few
years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till
he were old enough for orders. But Tom’s extravagance had, previous to
that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next
presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for
the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually
held for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement
somewhat easier to Sir Thomas’s conscience, he could not but feel it to
be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest
son with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better
effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do.
“I blush for you, Tom,” said he, in his most dignified manner; “I blush
for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your
feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,
twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income
which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I
hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be
forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his
natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent
for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the
urgency of your debts.”
Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly
as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly,
that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;
secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it;
and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in
all probability, die very soon.
On Mr. Norris’s death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,
who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a
hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram’s
calculations. But “no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of
fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off.”
He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they
entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very
respectable, agreeable people.
The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to
claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris’s situation,
and the improvement in Fanny’s age, seeming not merely to do away any
former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most
decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less
fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate,
in addition to his eldest son’s extravagance, it became not undesirable
to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the
obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that
such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the
first time of the subject’s occurring to her again happening to be when
Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, “So, Fanny, you are
going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?”
Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt’s words,
“Going to leave you?”
“Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years
with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.
But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.”
The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She
had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love
her.
“I shall be very sorry to go away,” said she, with a faltering voice.
“Yes, I dare say you will; _that’s_ natural enough. I suppose you have
had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature
in the world.”
“I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,” said Fanny modestly.
“No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl.”
“And am I never to live here again?”
“Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make
very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the
other.”
Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the
difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt
with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she
told him her distress.
“Cousin,” said she, “something is going to happen which I do not like
at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to
things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I
am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to
leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as
she is removed there.”
“Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call
it an excellent one.”
“Oh, cousin!”
“It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a
sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and
companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does
not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does
not distress you very much, Fanny?”
“Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in
it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with
her.”
“I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the
same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to
children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she
is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you
_must_ be important to her.”
“I can never be important to any one.”
“What is to prevent you?”
“Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.”
“As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you
never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly.
There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where
you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure
you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without
wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a
friend and companion.”
“You are too kind,” said Fanny, colouring at such praise; “how shall I
ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I
am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my
life.”
“Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance
as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles
off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost
as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the
year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will
necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are too
many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to
speak for yourself.”
“Oh! do not say so.”
“I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better
fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a
temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself
about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.”
Fanny sighed, and said, “I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to
believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged
to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose
my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of
consequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love
the place so well.”
“The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the
house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever.
Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a
nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same