الفصل الفصل 3 · 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

library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to

ride.”

“Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how

much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked

of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle’s

opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind

pains 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 hope you may always prophesy as well.”

“And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as

good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for

your ultimate happiness too.”

So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service 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 its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation

which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish,

the White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her

servants, and allow a spare room for 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 friend was 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 a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose

it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the 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 Lady Bertram! what do

you mean?”

“Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it 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 the world for me to think of,

or for anybody to wish that really knows 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 girl at

her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need

most attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test!

Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is

too much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would

propose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?”

“Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.”

“But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I

am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.”

“No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so 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 she be any

comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best

of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits

still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough

to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as

not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed—what possible comfort

could I have in taking such a charge upon 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 must struggle through

my sorrows and difficulties as I can.”

“Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?”

“Dear Lady Bertram! what am I fit for but solitude? Now and then I

shall hope to have a friend in my little cottage (I shall always have

a bed for a friend); but the most part of my future days will be spent

in utter seclusion. If I can but make both ends meet, that's all I ask

for.”

“I hope, sister, things are not so very bad with you neither

considering Sir Thomas says you will have six hundred a year.”

“Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live 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 ashamed

to practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income.

A great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the

parish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was

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 able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.”

“I dare say you will. You always do, don’t you?”

“My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me.

It is for your children’s good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody

else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a

little trifle 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 Thomas will take care of that.”

“Why, you know, Sir Thomas’s means will be rather straitened if the

Antigua estate is to make such poor returns.”

“Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing 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 use to your family: and so, if Sir

Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able

to say that my 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 conversation to her husband to

convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law’s views; and

she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the

slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her

refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to

adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady

Bertram, understand that whatever she possessed was designed for their

family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same

time that 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 disappointment in what he had expected to

be so essentially serviceable to 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 good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant,

instead of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook

as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen

in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such

grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and 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 this was 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 enough

for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find

out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds.”

Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective.

She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all

the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant’s being so well settled in life

without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point

almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the

other.

These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event

arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some

place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found

it expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of

his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of

detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England with

the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its

utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the

rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of

others at their present most interesting time of life. He could not

think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or

rather, to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris’s

watchful attention, and in Edmund’s judgment, he had sufficient

confidence to 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 persons who 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 never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his

absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all

restraint; and without aiming at one gratification that 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 quite equal to her

cousins’; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were

ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve. “Sir

Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone

perhaps never to return! that she should see him go 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

course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite

him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be

known to be in England. “This was so thoughtful and kind!” and would he

only have smiled upon her, and called her “my dear Fanny,” while he

said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten.

But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification,

by adding, “If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able

to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted

have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though,

I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much

like his sister at ten.” She cried bitterly over this reflection when

her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set

her down as a hypocrite.