Chapter III

by Jane Austen

　　The first event of any importance in the family wasthe death of Mr. Norris, which happened when Fanny wasabout fifteen, and necessarily introduced alterationsand novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the Parsonage,removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small houseof Sir Thomas's in the village, and consoled herselffor the loss of her husband by considering that shecould do very well without him; and for her reductionof income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncledied a few years sooner, it would have been duly givento 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 thenext presentation necessary, and the younger brothermust 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 arrangementsomewhat easier to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could notbut feel it to be an act of injustice, and he earnestlytried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction,in the hope of its producing a better effect than anything hehad 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 trustI 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 oughtto 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 thatsort would have been beyond his natural claims on us,and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent for thecertain advantage which he is now obliged to foregothrough the urgency of your debts."Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow;but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon withcheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he hadnot been half so much in debt as some of his friends;secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome pieceof 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 ofa Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at Mansfield;and on proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemedlikely 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 fairreport of being very respectable, agreeable people.The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected hissister-in-law to claim her share in their niece,the change in Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvementin Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any formerobjection to their living together, but even to give itthe most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstanceswere rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recentlosses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldestson's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to berelieved from the expense of her support, and the obligationof her future provision. In the fullness of his beliefthat such a thing must be, he mentioned its probabilityto his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurringto her again happening to be when Fanny was present,she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are goingto leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?"Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeather aunt's words, "Going to leave you?""Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished?You have been five years with us, and my sisteralways 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 afaltering voice."Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough.I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you cameinto 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 youa 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 arein one house or the other."Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she couldnot feel the difference to be so small, she could not thinkof 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 Ido not like at all; and though you have often persuaded meinto being reconciled to things that I disliked at first,you will not be able to do it now. I am going to liveentirely 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 isacting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She ischoosing 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 doesnot distress you very much, Fanny?""Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this houseand 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 neverknew how to be pleasant to children. But you are nowof an age to be treated better; I think she is behavingbetter 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 usingthe words so improperly. There is no reason in the worldwhy you should not be important where you are known.You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure youhave a grateful heart, that could never receive kindnesswithout wishing to return it. I do not know any betterqualifications 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 thinkingso well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shallremember your goodness to the last moment of my life.""Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered atsuch a distance as the White House. You speak as if youwere going two hundred miles off instead of only acrossthe 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! I do not say so.""I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norrisis much better fitted than my mother for having the chargeof you now. She is of a temper to do a great dealfor anybody she really interests herself about, and shewill 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 reconcileme to what must be. If I could suppose my aunt reallyto care for me, it would be delightful to feel myselfof 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 youquit the house. You will have as free a command of thepark and gardens as ever. Even _your_ constant littleheart need not take fright at such a nominal change.You will have the same walks to frequent, the same libraryto choose from, the same people to look at, the same horseto ride.""Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when Iremember how much I used to dread riding, what terrorsit gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good(oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening his lipsif horses were talked of), and then think of the kindpains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears,and convince me that I should like it after a little while,and feel how right you proved to be, I am inclined to hopeyou may always prophesy as well.""And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norriswill be as good for your mind as riding has been foryour health, and as much for your ultimate happiness too."So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriateservice it could render Fanny, might as well have been spared,for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her.It had never occurred to her, on the present occasion,but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To prevent itsbeing expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitationwhich could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfieldparish, the White House being only just large enough toreceive herself and her servants, and allow a spare roomfor a friend, of which she made a very particular point.The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted,but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friendwas now never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however,could save her from being suspected of something better;or, perhaps, her very display of the importance of aspare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose itreally intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon broughtthe matter to a certainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris--"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer,when Fanny goes to live with you."Mrs. Norris almost started. "Live with me, dear LadyBertram! what do you mean?""Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settledit with Sir Thomas.""Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas,nor he to me. Fanny live with me! the last thing in theworld for me to think of, or for anybody to wish that reallyknows us both. Good heaven! what could I do with Fanny?Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for anything,my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girlat her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very ageof all others to need most attention and care, and putthe cheerfullest spirits to the test! Sure Sir Thomascould not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is toomuch my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure,would propose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to youabout it?""Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.""But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ meto take Fanny. I am sure in his heart he could not wishme to do it.""No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thoughtso too. We both thought it would be a comfort to you.But if you do not like it, there is no more to be said.She is no encumbrance here.""Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can shebe any comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow,deprived of the best of husbands, my health gone in attendingand nursing him, my spirits still worse, all my peacein this world destroyed, with hardly enough to supportme in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to liveso as not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed--what possible comfort could I have in taking such a chargeupon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for my own sake,I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl.She is in good hands, and sure of doing well. I muststruggle through my sorrows and difficulties as I can.""Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?""Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannotlive as I have done, but I must retrench where I can,and learn to be a better manager. I _have_ _been_a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamedto practise economy now. My situation is as muchaltered as my income. A great many things were duefrom poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the parish,that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how muchwas consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers.At the White House, matters must be better looked after.I _must_ live within my income, or I shall be miserable;and I own it would give me great satisfaction to be ableto do rather more, to lay by a little at the end ofthe year.""I dare say you will. You always do, don't you?""My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those thatcome after me. It is for your children's good that Iwish to be richer. I have nobody else to care for,but I should be very glad to think I could leave a littletrifle among them worth their having.""You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them.They are sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomaswill take care of that.""Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitenedif the Antigua estate is to make such poor returns.""Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has beenwriting about it, I know.""Well, Lady Bertram," said Mrs. Norris, moving to go,"I can only say that my sole desire is to be of useto your family: and so, if Sir Thomas should ever speakagain about my taking Fanny, you will be able to say thatmy health and spirits put it quite out of the question;besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her,for I must keep a spare room for a friend."Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversationto her husband to convince him how much he had mistakenhis sister-in-law's views; and she was from that momentperfectly safe from all expectation, or the slightestallusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at herrefusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been soforward to adopt; but, as she took early care to make him,as well as Lady Bertram, understand that whatever shepossessed was designed for their family, he soon grewreconciled to a distinction which, at the same timethat it was advantageous and complimentary to them,would enable him better to provide for Fanny himself.Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal;and her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery,conveyed some consolation to Edmund for his disappointmentin what he had expected to be so essentially serviceableto her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the White House,the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events over,everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable,gave great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance.They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out.The Doctor was very fond of eating, and would have a gooddinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of contrivingto gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as highwages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely everseen in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with anytemper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butterand eggs that were regularly consumed in the house."Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself;nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage,she believed, had never been wanting in comforts of any sort,had never borne a bad character in _her_ _time_, but thiswas a way of going on that she could not understand.A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place._Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enoughfor Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would,she could not find out that Mrs. Grant had ever had morethan five thousand pounds."Lady Bertram listened without much interest to thissort of invective. She could not enter into the wrongsof an economist, but she felt all the injuries of beautyin Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life withoutbeing handsome, and expressed her astonishment onthat point almost as often, though not so diffusely,as Mrs. Norris discussed the other.These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year beforeanother event arose of such importance in the family,as might fairly claim some place in the thoughts andconversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it expedientto go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangementof his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him,in the hope of detaching him from some bad connexionsat home. They left England with the probability of beingnearly a twelvemonth absent.The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light,and the hope of its utility to his son, reconciled SirThomas to the effort of quitting the rest of his family,and of leaving his daughters to the direction of othersat their present most interesting time of life.He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply hisplace with them, or rather, to perform what should havebeen her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention,and in Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient confidenceto make him go without fears for their conduct.Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her;but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety,or solicitude for his comfort, being one of those personswho think nothing can be dangerous, or difficult,or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion:not for their sorrow, but for their want of it.Their father was no object of love to them; he had neverseemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absencewas unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it fromall restraint; and without aiming at one gratificationthat would probably have been forbidden by Sir Thomas,they felt themselves immediately at their own disposal,and to have every indulgence within their reach.Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of it, were quiteequal to her cousins'; but a more tender nature suggestedthat her feelings were ungrateful, and she reallygrieved because she could not grieve. "Sir Thomas,who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who wasgone perhaps never to return! that she should see himgo without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility."He had said to her, moreover, on the very last morning,that he hoped she might see William again in the courseof the ensuing winter, and had charged her to writeand invite him to Mansfield as soon as the squadronto which he belonged should be known to be in England."This was so thoughtful and kind!" and would he onlyhave smiled upon her, and called her "my dear Fanny,"while he said it, every former frown or cold addressmight have been forgotten. But he had ended his speechin a way to sink her in sad mortification, by adding,"If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be ableto convince him that the many years which have passedsince you parted have not been spent on your side entirelywithout improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sisterat sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at ten."She cried bitterly over this reflection when her unclewas gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes,set her down as a hypocrite.