The death of Mr. Norris, when Fanny was about fifteen, brought changes. Mrs. Norris removed to a small house 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 necessity of stricter economy.
The parson’s living was for Edmund; and would have been given to some friend to hold till he were old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had been so great as to make a different disposal necessary; the younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held for Edmund; but even so, Sir Thomas could not but feel it to be an injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction.
"I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified manner; "You have robbed Edmund for 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, to find him a better position; but nothing can equal the advantage which he must now forego through the urgency of your debts."
Tom listened with some shame and 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 tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would probably die very soon.
On Mr. Norris's death the living went to a Dr. Grant, who came to reside at Mansfield; and 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 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. Now that Mrs. Norris was a widow, to have Fanny living with her would be very suitable; and as he had borne some losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, he wished to be relieved from the expense of her support. He mentioned this probability to his wife; and she later calmly observed to Fanny, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?"
"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."
The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it was 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. You have had as little to vex you in this house as any creature in the world."
"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny.
"No, my dear; I have always found you a very good girl."
"Am I never to live here again?"
"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home."
Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not think of living with her aunt with 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. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House."
"Well, Fanny, if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one."
"Oh, cousin!"
"My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?"
"Indeed it does. I love this house and everything in it. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her."
"It was the same with us all when we were younger. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; 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. 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, 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; but you will belong to us as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will be brought forward. 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 with pleasure. Mrs. Norris will do a great deal for anybody she interests herself about."
Fanny sighed. "I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right, and I am obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to it. 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. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choose from, the same horse to ride."
"Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, I remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me; and how kindly you persuaded me out of my fears, and convinced me that I should like it after a little while. When I feel how right you were, I hope you may always prophesy so 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 for your happiness too."
So ended their discourse, which might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking Fanny. It was a thing to be avoided. To prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation which could rank as genteel, 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. 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 head by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris—
"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee, when Fanny goes to live with you."
"Live with me! 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! Good heaven! what could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl of fifteen? the very age of all others to put the cheerfullest spirits to the test! Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! How came he to speak to you about it?"
"I do not know. I suppose he thought it best."
"But he could not say he wished me to take Fanny."
"No; he only said he thought it very likely. We both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it, she is no encumbrance here."
"Dear sister, how can she be any comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow,
my health and spirits gone, my peace destroyed, with hardly enough to support me—what possible comfort could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? I would not be so unjust to the poor girl. She is in good hands. I must struggle through my sorrows as I can."
"Then you will not mind living quite alone?"
"Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I cannot live as I have done. I have been a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall practise economy now. At the White House, I must live within my income; and I own it would give me great satisfaction 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 should be glad to think I could leave them a little trifle."
"You are very good, but they are sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that."
"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be straitened if the Antigua estate makes such poor returns."
"Oh! that will soon be settled."
"Well, Lady Bertram," said Mrs. Norris, "My sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir Thomas should 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, I really have no 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 that he had mistaken his sister-in-law's views; and she was from that moment safe from expectation. He wondered at her refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so anxious to adopt; but soon accepted it.
Fanny learnt how unnecessary had been her fears. Mrs. Norris moved to the White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.
The Grants, being friendly and sociable, gave great satisfaction 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 gave her cook as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were consumed in the house. "Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself; 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. 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. She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt astonishment in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life without being handsome.
Hardly a year on, another event arose of importance in the family. Sir Thomas needed to go to Antigua to sort out his affairs, and he took his eldest son, in the hope of detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England expecting to be a twelvemonth absent.
The necessity of the journey reconciled Sir Thomas to quitting the rest of his family, and leaving his daughters in the care of others. He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention, and in Edmund's judgment, he had confidence.
Lady Bertram did not like to have her husband leave her; but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous or difficult to anybody but themselves.
The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their sorrow, but for their lack of it. Their father was no object of love to them; his absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint; they felt themselves at their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach.
Fanny's relief was quite equal to her cousins'; but she really grieved because she could not grieve. "Sir Thomas, who had done so much for her, gone perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility." He had said to her, on the last morning, that he hoped she might see William again, and had told her to invite him to Mansfield when his squadron was in England. "This was so thoughtful and kind!" and if he had only smiled, and called her "my dear Fanny", every former cold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended his speech by adding, "If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may convince him that your years here have not been spent entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen too much like his sister at ten." She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a hypocrite.
CHAPTER 4