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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 forgo 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 with any former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son’s extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject’s occurring to her again, happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, ‘So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?’
Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt’s words, ‘Going to leave you?’
‘Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.’
The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her Aunt Norris, and could not love her.
‘I shall be very sorry to go away,’ said she, with a faltering voice.
‘Yes, I dare say you will; that’s natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world.’
‘I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,’ said Fanny modestly.
‘No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl.’
‘And am I never to live here again?’
‘Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other.’
Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart: she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund, she told him her distress.
‘Cousin,’ said she, ‘something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my Aunt Norris.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Yes: my Aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there.’
‘Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one.’
‘Oh, cousin!’
‘It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?’
‘Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her.’
‘I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you must be important to her.’
‘I can never be important to any one.’
‘What is to prevent you?’
‘Everything. My situation, my foolishness, and awkwardness.’
‘As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion.’
‘You are too kind,’ said Fanny, colouring at such praise; ‘how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my life.’
‘Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the year. The only difference will be, that living with your aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. Here, there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with her, you will be forced to speak for yourself.’
‘Oh! do not say so.’
‘I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs Norris is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.’
Fanny sighed, and said, ‘I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to anybody. Here, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the place so well.’
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