Chapter: About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven
thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of
Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised
to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences
of an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the
greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her
to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it.
She had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of their
acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome as
Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with almost equal
advantage. But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in
the world as there are pretty women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the
end of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached to
the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law, with scarcely any
private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward's match,
indeed, when it came to the point, was not contemptible: Sir Thomas
being happily able to give his friend an income in the living of
Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal
felicity with very little less than a thousand a year. But Miss Frances
married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family, and by fixing on
a lieutenant of marines, without education, fortune, or connexions, did
it very thoroughly. She could hardly have made a more untoward choice.
Sir Thomas Bertram had interest, which, from principle as well as
pride--from a general wish of doing right, and a desire of seeing all
that were connected with him in situations of respectability, he would
have been glad to exert for the advantage of Lady Bertram's sister; but
her husband's profession was such as no interest could reach; and before
he had time to devise any other method of assisting them, an absolute
breach between the sisters had taken place. It was the natural result of
the conduct of each party, and such as a very imprudent marriage almost
always produces. To save herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price
never wrote to her family on the subject till actually married. Lady
Bertram, who was a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper
remarkably easy and indolent, would have contented herself with merely
giving up her sister, and thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs.
Norris had a spirit of activity, which could not be satisfied till she
had written a long and angry letter to Fanny, to point out the folly of
her conduct, and threaten her with all its possible ill consequences.
Mrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer, which
comprehended each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very
disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris
could not possibly keep to herself, put an end to all intercourse
between them for a considerable period.

Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so
distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each
other's existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to
make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have
it in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry
voice, that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years,
however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or
resentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her.
A large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active
service, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very
small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the friends
she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram in
a letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence, such a
superfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything else, as
could not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing
for her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance, and
imploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she
could not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future
maintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten
years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world;
but what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter
useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property?
No situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of
Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East?

The letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness.
Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched
money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more
important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was
often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister and
her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for her,
she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not but
own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the
charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number. "What
if they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest daughter,
a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more attention than her
poor mother could possibly give? The trouble and expense of it to them
would be nothing, compared with the benevolence of the action." Lady
Bertram agreed with her instantly. "I think we cannot do better," said
she; "let us send for the child."

Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent. He
debated and hesitated;--it was a serious charge;--a girl so brought up
must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead
of kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four
children, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;--but no sooner
had he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris
interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.

"My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the
generosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a
piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in
the main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of
providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands;
and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my
mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I
look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the children
of my sisters?--and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just--but you know I am
a woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from
a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce
her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of
settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir
Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up in this
neighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so
handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be
introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable
circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable
establishment. You are thinking of your sons--but do not you know that,
of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought
up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is
morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the
only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty
girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence,
and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been
suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect,
would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love
with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her
even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to
either than a sister."

"There is a great deal of truth in what you say," replied Sir Thomas,
"and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a
plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each.
I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in,
and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to
ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to
secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of
a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so
sanguine in expecting."

"I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris, "you are everything
that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree
on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready
enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never
feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your
own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own,
I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a
sister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of
bread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm
heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of
life than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will
write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon
as matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield;
_you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never
regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed
at her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed to meet her
there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach,
under the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I
dare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife or other going
up."

Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any
objection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous
being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled,
and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The
division of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to
have been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and
consistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the
least intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance.
As far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly
benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others;
but her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew
quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.
Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look
forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of
economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew
into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude which
there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide
for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care
of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the
comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never
lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real
affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than
the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though
perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk home to the
Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the
most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.

When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully
explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of "Where shall
the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?" Sir Thomas heard with
some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power to
take any share in the personal charge of her. He had been considering
her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable
companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found
himself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little
girl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of
the question. Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it an
impossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a child than he could
fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his gouty complaints, it
would be a different matter: she should then be glad to take her turn,
and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just now, poor Mr. Norris
took up every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a thing
she was sure would distract him.

"Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram, with the utmost
composure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, "Yes, let
her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and
she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and
of a regular instructress."

"Very true," cried Mrs. Norris, "which are both very important
considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she has
three girls to teach, or only two--there can be no difference. I only
wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not
one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her,
however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away
for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little
white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place
for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the
housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you know, and
take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to
expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see
that you could possibly place her anywhere else."

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

"I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris,
"and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends."

"Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not,
for our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is
no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish
altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some
meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but
these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for
her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should
have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very
serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for
_them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association."

"That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris, "and what I was
saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the
child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her
nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."

"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but
just got Julia to leave it alone."

"There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir
Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls
as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the
consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of
their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make
her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them
very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the
smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they
cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will
always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must
assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of
conduct."

Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed
with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope
that between them it would be easily managed.

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister
in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be
fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most
thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed,
good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw
her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was
sanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air.
Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of
her children.



The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at Northampton
was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost
to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in to the others,
and recommending her to their kindness.

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might
not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least,
nothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow
of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy,
and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar,
her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir
Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas,
seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that was
conciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of
deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or
speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a good-humoured
smile, became immediately the less awful character of the two.

The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the
introduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at
least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall
of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little
cousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in
greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with
rather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to
company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their
confidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were
soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy
indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the
daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of
their age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins
in person, as education had given to their address; and no one would
have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There
were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia
Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor
meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of
herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to look
up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris
had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful
good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good
behaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was
therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her
not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became soon no
trifling evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas,
and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be
a good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa
with herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart
towards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls
before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest
friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.

"This is not a very promising beginning," said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny
had left the room. "After all that I said to her as we came along, I
thought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend
upon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a
little sulkiness of temper--her poor mother had a good deal; but we must
make allowances for such a child--and I do not know that her being sorry
to leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults,
it _was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has
changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all things."

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to
allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the
separation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very
acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody
meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure
her comfort.

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to
afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their young
cousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap on
finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and
when they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were so
good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous present
of some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while
they adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport of the
moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the
drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something
to fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady
Bertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome
by Mrs. Norris's admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by
reflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss
Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her
clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers
and sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,
instructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was
severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The
rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched
she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of
something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry; and
the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it
at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune,
ended every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had
passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet
passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund, the
youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.

"My dear little cousin," said he, with all the gentleness of an
excellent nature, "what can be the matter?" And sitting down by her,
he was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and
persuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with
her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled
about anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short,
want anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long while
no answer could be obtained beyond a "no, no--not at all--no, thank
you"; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert
to her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where the
grievance lay. He tried to console her.

"You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny," said he, "which
shows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are
with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you
happy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about your
brothers and sisters."

On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and
sisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her
thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and
wanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her
constant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom
he was the darling) in every distress. "William did not like she should
come away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed." "But
William will write to you, I dare say." "Yes, he had promised he would,
but he had told _her_ to write first." "And when shall you do it?" She
hung her head and answered hesitatingly, "she did not know; she had not
any paper."

"If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and every
other material, and you may write your letter whenever you choose. Would
it make you happy to write to William?"

"Yes, very."

"Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shall
find everything there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves."

"But, cousin, will it go to the post?"

"Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and,
as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing."

"My uncle!" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.

"Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to
frank."

Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and
they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her
paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother
could himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He
continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his
penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to these
attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which
delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his
love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal.
Fanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself
incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words
fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began
to find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all
that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and
a strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther
entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great
timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that
she required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured,
in the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her
especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and
Julia, and being as merry as possible.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a
friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits
with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less
formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease
to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best
manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses
which had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all,
and not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer
materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's
voice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally
an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and
strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes
were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when
that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but
own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund
urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was good-natured
enough."

Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure
on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of
seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just
entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal
dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and
enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his
situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed
at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris
thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it
was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she
showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little
trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_.
Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more;
and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had
been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the
first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of
it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot
put the map of Europe together--or my cousin cannot tell the principal
rivers in Russia--or, she never heard of Asia Minor--or she does
not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!--How
strange!--Did you ever hear anything so stupid?"

"My dear," their considerate aunt would reply, "it is very bad, but
you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as
yourself."

"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!--Do you know, we asked her
last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she
should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of
Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island
in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had
not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember
the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least
notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the
chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their
accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!"

"Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;
besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals,
semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers."

"Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful
memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a
vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else,
and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her
deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever
yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already,
there is a great deal more for you to learn."

"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another
thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not
want to learn either music or drawing."

"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great
want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know
whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know
(owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with
you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as
you are;--on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should
be a difference."

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces'
minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising
talents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the
less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In
everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did
not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he
was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed
all the flow of their spirits before him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest
attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent
her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of
needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than
her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put
herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas,
and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure
for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed it
unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper
masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at
learning, "she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people
_were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what
else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw
no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very handy and
quick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted."

Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at
Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her
attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her
cousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though
Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too
lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it.

From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in
consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave
up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring,
and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his
duty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort
might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss
Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets,
and grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming in person,
manner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his 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.



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! I 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?"

"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.



Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he
could be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished
to find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund
could supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to
the attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her
from all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of
directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers' safe arrival at Antigua,
after a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris
had been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund
participate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended
on being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,
she had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,
when Sir Thomas's assurances of their both being alive and well made it
necessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches
for a while.

The winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts
continued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for her
nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,
and looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in
addition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of
her sister, and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings to overlook, left her very
little occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the
neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements
a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and
obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their
vanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free from it,
and gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such behaviour,
secured and brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen them in
believing they had no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too
indolent even to accept a mother's gratification in witnessing their
success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the
charge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a
post of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished
the means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to
hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed
being avowedly useful as her aunt's companion when they called away the
rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally
became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party.
She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquillity
of such evenings, her perfect security in such a _tete-a-tete_ from any
sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom
known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments. As to her cousins'
gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them, especially of the
balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought too lowly of her
own situation to imagine she should ever be admitted to the same, and
listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern in them. Upon
the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her; for though it brought
no William to England, the never-failing hope of his arrival was worth
much.

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey pony;
and for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her health as
well as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged importance
of her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for mounting her
again, "because," as it was observed by her aunts, "she might ride one
of her cousin's horses at any time when they did not want them," and as
the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fine day, and had
no idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice of any real
pleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their cheerful
rides in the fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny either sat at
home the whole day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at
the instigation of the other: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as
unnecessary for everybody as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs.
Norris, who was walking all day, thinking everybody ought to walk
as much. Edmund was absent at this time, or the evil would have
been earlier remedied. When he returned, to understand how Fanny was
situated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but one
thing to be done; and that "Fanny must have a horse" was the resolute
declaration with which he opposed whatever could be urged by the
supineness of his mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear
unimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old
thing might be found among the numbers belonging to the Park that would
do vastly well; or that one might be borrowed of the steward; or that
perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lend them the pony he sent to the
post. She could not but consider it as absolutely unnecessary, and even
improper, that Fanny should have a regular lady's horse of her own, in
the style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended it:
and she must say that, to be making such a purchase in his absence, and
adding to the great expenses of his stable, at a time when a large part
of his income was unsettled, seemed to her very unjustifiable. "Fanny
must have a horse," was Edmund's only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see
it in the same light. Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son
as to the necessity of it, and as to its being considered necessary by
his father; she only pleaded against there being any hurry; she only
wanted him to wait till Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir Thomas might
settle it all himself. He would be at home in September, and where would
be the harm of only waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his
mother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help paying
more attention to what she said; and at length determined on a method of
proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father's thinking he
had done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny the immediate
means of exercise, which he could not bear she should be without. He had
three horses of his own, but not one that would carry a woman. Two
of them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this third he
resolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he knew where
such a one was to be met with; and having once made up his mind, the
whole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a treasure; with
a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for the purpose,
and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her. She had not
supposed before that anything could ever suit her like the old grey
pony; but her delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond any former
pleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in the
consideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was
beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example
of everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but
herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from
her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments towards
him were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful, confiding, and
tender.

As the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of Edmund,
Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny's use; and had Lady
Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have
been excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in
September, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and
without any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable
circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to
turn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty
in which everything was then involved determined him on sending home his
son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived safely,
bringing an excellent account of his father's health; but to very little
purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas's sending away
his son seemed to her so like a parent's care, under the influence of a
foreboding of evil to himself, that she could not help feeling dreadful
presentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came on, was so
terribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage,
as to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park.
The return of winter engagements, however, was not without its effect;
and in the course of their progress, her mind became so pleasantly
occupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece, as
tolerably to quiet her nerves. "If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to
return, it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria well
married," she very often thought; always when they were in the company
of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a young man
who had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and finest
places in the country.

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss Bertram,
and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He was
a heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there was
nothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was well
pleased with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year, Maria
Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a marriage with
Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her
father's, as well as ensure her the house in town, which was now a prime
object, it became, by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident
duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs. Norris was most zealous
in promoting the match, by every suggestion and contrivance likely to
enhance its desirableness to either party; and, among other means, by
seeking an intimacy with the gentleman's mother, who at present lived
with him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go through ten
miles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It was not long before
a good understanding took place between this lady and herself. Mrs.
Rushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her son should marry,
and declared that of all the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss
Bertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and accomplishments, the best
adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment,
and admired the nice discernment of character which could so well
distinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and delight of them
all--perfectly faultless--an angel; and, of course, so surrounded by
admirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as far as Mrs.
Norris could allow herself to decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr.
Rushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve and attach her.

After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young
people justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due reference
to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the satisfaction
of their respective families, and of the general lookers-on of the
neighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the expediency of Mr.
Rushworth's marrying Miss Bertram.

It was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could be received; but,
in the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure
in the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried
on without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs.
Norris's talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at
present.

Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the
business; but no representation of his aunt's could induce him to find
Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be
the best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her
happiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from
often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company--"If this man had
not twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow."

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance
so unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the
perfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right
sort--in the same county, and the same interest--and his most hearty
concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that
the marriage should not take place before his return, which he was again
looking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong hopes
of settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving Antigua
before the end of the summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just
reached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received
an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss
Crawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were
young people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the
daughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been
always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon
followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the
care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she
had scarcely seen them since. In their uncle's house they had found a
kind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,
were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no
farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite, to
whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral delighted
in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady's death
which now obliged her _protegee_, after some months' further trial at
her uncle's house, to find another home. Admiral Crawford was a man of
vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his
mistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her
sister's proposal of coming to her, a measure quite as welcome on one
side as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by
this time run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the
country without a family of children--having more than filled her
favourite sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made a choice
collection of plants and poultry--was very much in want of some variety
at home. The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she had always loved,
and now hoped to retain with her as long as she remained single, was
highly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not
satisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though
they arose principally from doubts of her sister's style of living and
tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to
persuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house,
that she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To
anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry
Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his
sister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the
utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch
her away again, at half an hour's notice, whenever she were weary of the
place.

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a
sister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister's husband who looked
the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant
received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young man
and woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was remarkably
pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance; the manners
of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them
credit for everything else. She was delighted with each, but Mary was
her dearest object; and having never been able to glory in beauty of her
own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister's.
She had not waited her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her:
she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of a baronet was not too
good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance
and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being a
warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been three hours in the
house before she told her what she had planned.

Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very near
them, and not at all displeased either at her sister's early care, or
the choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she
could marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that
objection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in
life. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to
think of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.

"And now," added Mrs. Grant, "I have thought of something to make it
complete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and
therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,
handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very
happy."

Henry bowed and thanked her.

"My dear sister," said Mary, "if you can persuade him into anything
of the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself
allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have
not half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry
to marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English
abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular
friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains
which they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt
and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is
inconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If
your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them
avoid Henry."

"My dear brother, I will not believe this of you."

"No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You
will allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious
temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can
think more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the
blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of
the poet--'Heaven's _last_ best gift.'"

"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look
at his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral's lessons
have quite spoiled him."

"I pay very little regard," said Mrs. Grant, "to what any young person
says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for
it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person."

Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no
disinclination to the state herself.

"Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if
they can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves
away; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to
advantage."

 Chapter One and Chapter Two The first chapter begins with an explanation of how 30 years ago Miss Maria Ward of Huntingdon had the luck to 'captivate' Sir Thomas Bertram of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and was raised 'to the rank of a baronet's lady'. Of her sisters, Miss Ward married the Reverend Mr Norris and Miss Frances 'fared yet worse' and disobliged her family by marrying a Lieutenant of Marines. Mrs Norris and Frances exchanged 'injurious' letters and intercourse between ended for 'a considerable period'. After 11 years, Mrs Price has an increasing family and little money as her husband is disabled from active service, but he is described as still liking company and good liquor. She writes to her sister Lady Bertram as she is preparing for her ninth child. Her eldest son is 10 years old and wonders if he would be of use to Sir Thomas 'in the concerns of his West Indian property'. The letter is productive as Sir Thomas sends advice and his wife some money and baby linen. A year later Mrs Norris wishes for them to take on the eldest daughter of Mrs Price and Lady Bertram agrees and send for her. Sir Thomas is hesitant, but Mrs Norris defends the idea as the girl will have the chance of 'settling well' and costing no further expense. Mrs Norris's frugality is explained by the narrator and her benevolence is described as restricted to her direction of events as 'her love of money' is equal to 'her love of directing'. She says it is out of the question for the child to stay at the parsonage as Mr Norris's health will not allow for it. The Bertrams agree to have the girl, but Sir Thomas point out there will be 'some difficulty' in reminding his daughters of the distinction between them and their cousin 'without depressing her spirits too far'. They will never be equals in 'rank, fortune, rights and expectations'. Mrs Norris writes to Mrs Price and she agrees to send her daughter, although she is surprised they did not want one of her 'many fine boys'. In Chapter Two, the little girl is introduced as Fanny Price and is just 10 years old and 'exceedingly timid and shy'. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram meet her with kindness. Her female cousins, Maria and Julia, are not much older but are more confident. Fanny becomes tearful and is tired from the long journey, and goes to bed. Over the next days, she is still forlorn at having left her home  and finds 'something to fear in every person and every place'. The servants, for example, sneer at her clothes. She creeps around the house 'in constant terror' and is afraid of breaking something. She ends every day by crying herself to sleep. She is there a week when her cousin Edmund finds her crying in the attic and tries to find out what is wrong. He persuades her to talk about her family as they walk in the park and discovers her brother William is the one she is closest to. He is a year older and had been her constant companion. Edmund encourages her to write a letter to him. Fanny begins to feel more comfortable from this point as she feels she has a friend in Edmund. She is able to read and write, but has not been taught anything else. Her two female cousins report to their mother on Fanny's ignorance of geography, for instance, and their aunt says she may not be as 'forward and quick at learning' as they are. When one of the girls say Fanny does not want to learn music or drawing, Mrs Norris says it is 'very stupid' but it is desirable there is such a difference between them as Fanny does not have to be as accomplished as they are. The narrator explains how these girls are 'entirely deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity, and humility' and 'in everything but disposition, they were admirably taught'. Both parents are not involved in the education of their daughters and if Lady Bertram had thought of it, she would have thought of them as being under the care of a governess with 'proper masters' and needed nothing more. Sir Thomas remembers Fanny's siblings and helps Mrs Price with the 'education and disposal of her sons'. Over the course of a number of years, Fanny only sees William and that is once when he spends a week at Mansfield Park before becoming a sailor. Edmund continues to be kind to Fanny even when he leaves Eton for Oxford. He encourages her to read and knows her to be clever 'and to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense'. She loves him better than anybody except William, and her heart is divided in two.

