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Title: The Garotters

Author: William D. Howells

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CHAPTER I

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.

CHAPTER II 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.

CHAPTER III The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr. Norris,
which happened when Fanny was about fifteen,
and necessarily introduced alterations and novelties.

Mrs. Norris,
on quitting the Parsonage,
removed first
to the Park,
and afterwards
to a small house of Sir Thomas's in the village,
and consoled herself
for the loss of her husband by considering that she could do very well without him;
and
for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.

The living was hereafter
for Edmund;
and,
had his uncle died a few years sooner,
it would have been duly given
to some friend
to hold till he were old enough
for orders.

But Tom's extravagance had,
previous
to that event,
been so great as
to render a different disposal of the next presentation necessary,
and the younger brother must help
to pay
for the pleasures of the elder.

There was another family living actually held
for Edmund;
but though this circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier
to Sir Thomas's conscience,
he could not but feel it
to be an act of injustice,
and he earnestly tried
to impress his eldest son
with the same conviction,
in the hope of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able
to say or do.

"I blush
for you,
Tom,"
said he,
in his most dignified manner;
"I blush
for the expedient which I am driven on,
and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion.

You have robbed Edmund
for ten,
twenty,
thirty years,
perhaps
for life,
of more than half the income which ought
to be his.

It may hereafter be in my power,
or in yours
(I hope it will),
to procure him better preferment;
but it must not be forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his natural claims on us,
and that nothing can,
in fact,
be an equivalent
for the certain advantage which he is now obliged
to forego through the urgency of your debts."



Tom listened
with some shame and some sorrow;
but escaping as quickly as possible,
could soon
with cheerful selfishness reflect,
firstly,
that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;
secondly,
that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it;
and,
thirdly,
that the future incumbent,
whoever he might be,
would,
in all probability,
die very soon.

On Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,
who came consequently
to reside at Mansfield;
and on proving
to be a hearty man of forty-five,
seemed likely
to disappoint Mr. Bertram's calculations.

But
"no,
he was a short-necked,
apoplectic sort of fellow,
and,
plied well
with good things,
would soon pop off."



He had a wife about fifteen years his junior,
but no children;
and they entered the neighbourhood
with the usual fair report of being very respectable,
agreeable people.

The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law
to claim her share in their niece,
the change in Mrs. Norris's situation,
and the improvement in Fanny's age,
seeming not merely
to do away any former objection
to their living together,
but even
to give it the most decided eligibility;
and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore,
by some recent losses on his West India estate,
in addition
to his eldest son's extravagance,
it became not undesirable
to himself
to be relieved from the expense of her support,
and the obligation of her future provision.

In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be,
he mentioned its probability
to his wife;
and the first time of the subject's occurring
to her again happening
to be when Fanny was present,
she calmly observed
to her,
"So,
Fanny,
you are going
to leave us,
and live
with my sister.

How shall you like it?"

Fanny was too much surprised
to do more than repeat her aunt's words,
"Going
to leave you?"

"Yes,
my dear;
why should you be astonished?

You have been five years
with us,
and my sister always meant
to take you when Mr. Norris died.

But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same."



The news was as disagreeable
to Fanny as it had been unexpected.

She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris,
and could not love her.

"I shall be very sorry
to go away,"
said she,
with a faltering voice.

"Yes,
I dare say you will;
_that's_ natural enough.

I suppose you have had as little
to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world."



"I hope I am not ungrateful,
aunt,"
said Fanny modestly.

"No,
my dear;
I hope not.

I have always found you a very good girl."



"And am I never
to live here again?"

"Never,
my dear;
but you are sure of a comfortable home.

It can make very little difference
to you,
whether you are in one house or the other."



Fanny left the room
with a very sorrowful heart;
she could not feel the difference
to be so small,
she could not think of living
with her aunt
with anything like satisfaction.

As soon as she met
with Edmund she told him her distress.

"Cousin,"
said she,
"something is going
to happen which I do not like at all;
and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled
to things that I disliked at first,
you will not be able
to do it now.

I am going
to live entirely
with my aunt Norris."



"Indeed!"

"Yes;
my aunt Bertram has just told me so.

It is quite settled.

I am
to leave Mansfield Park,
and go
to the White House,
I suppose,
as soon as she is removed there."



"Well,
Fanny,
and if the plan were not unpleasant
to you,
I should call it an excellent one."



"Oh,
cousin!"

"It has everything else in its favour.

My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing
for you.

She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought,
and I am glad her love of money does not interfere.

You will be what you ought
to be
to her.

I hope it does not distress you very much,
Fanny?"

"Indeed it does:

I cannot like it.

I love this house and everything in it:

I shall love nothing there.

You know how uncomfortable I feel
with her."



"I can say nothing
for her manner
to you as a child;
but it was the same
with us all,
or nearly so.

She never knew how
to be pleasant
to children.

But you are now of an age
to be treated better;
I think she is behaving better already;
and when you are her only companion,
you _must_ be important
to her."



"I can never be important
to any one."



"What is
to prevent you?"

"Everything.

My situation,
my foolishness and awkwardness."



"As
to your foolishness and awkwardness,
my dear Fanny,
believe me,
you never have a shadow of either,
but in using the words so improperly.

There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known.

You have good sense,
and a sweet temper,
and I am sure you have a grateful heart,
that could never receive kindness without wishing
to return it.

I do not know any better qualifications
for a friend and companion."



"You are too kind,"
said Fanny,
colouring at such praise;
"how shall I ever thank you as I ought,
for thinking so well of me.

Oh! cousin,
if I am
to go away,
I shall remember your goodness
to the last moment of my life."



"Why,
indeed,
Fanny,
I should hope
to be remembered at such a distance as the White House.

You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park;
but you will belong
to us almost as much as ever.

The two families will be meeting every day in the year.

The only difference will be that,
living
with your aunt,
you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought
to be.

_Here_ there are too many whom you can hide behind;
but
with _her_ you will be forced
to speak
for yourself."



"Oh! 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.

CHAPTER IV 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 V The young people were pleased
with each other from the first.

On each side there was much
to attract,
and their acquaintance soon promised as early an intimacy as good manners would warrant.

Miss Crawford's beauty did her no disservice
with the Miss BertraMs. They were too handsome themselves
to dislike any woman
for being so too,
and were almost as much charmed as their brothers
with her lively dark eye,
clear brown complexion,
and general prettiness.

Had she been tall,
full formed,
and fair,
it might have been more of a trial:

but as it was,
there could be no comparison;
and she was most allowably a sweet,
pretty girl,
while they were the finest young women in the country.

Her brother was not handsome:

no,
when they first saw him he was absolutely plain,
black and plain;
but still he was the gentleman,
with a pleasing address.

The second meeting proved him not so very plain:

he was plain,
to be sure,
but then he had so much countenance,
and his teeth were so good,
and he was so well made,
that one soon forgot he was plain;
and after a third interview,
after dining in company
with him at the Parsonage,
he was no longer allowed
to be called so by anybody.

He was,
in fact,
the most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known,
and they were equally delighted
with him.

Miss Bertram's engagement made him in equity the property of Julia,
of which Julia was fully aware;
and before he had been at Mansfield a week,
she was quite ready
to be fallen in love with.

Maria's notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct.

She did not want
to see or understand.

"There could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man-- everybody knew her situation--Mr. Crawford must take care of himself."



Mr. Crawford did not mean
to be in any danger! the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing,
and were ready
to be pleased;
and he began
with no object but of making them like him.

He did not want them
to die of love;
but
with sense and temper which ought
to have made him judge and feel better,
he allowed himself great latitude on such points.

"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly,
sister,"
said he,
as he returned from attending them
to their carriage after the said dinner visit;
"they are very elegant,
agreeable girls."



"So they are indeed,
and I am delighted
to hear you say it.

But you like Julia best."



"Oh yes! I like Julia best."



"But do you really?

for Miss Bertram is in general thought the handsomest."



"So I should suppose.

She has the advantage in every feature,
and I prefer her countenance;
but I like Julia best;
Miss Bertram is certainly the handsomest,
and I have found her the most agreeable,
but I shall always like Julia best,
because you order me."



"I shall not talk
to you,
Henry,
but I know you _will_ like her best at last."



"Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?"

"And besides,
Miss Bertram is engaged.

Remember that,
my dear brother.

Her choice is made."



"Yes,
and I like her the better
for it.

An engaged woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged.

She is satisfied
with herself.

Her cares are over,
and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing without suspicion.

All is safe
with a lady engaged:

no harm can be done."



"Why,
as
to that,
Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man,
and it is a great match
for her."



"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws
for him;
_that_ is your opinion of your intimate friend.

_I_ do not subscribe
to it.

I am sure Miss Bertram is very much attached
to Mr. Rushworth.

I could see it in her eyes,
when he was mentioned.

I think too well of Miss Bertram
to suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart."



"Mary,
how shall we manage him?"

"We must leave him
to himself,
I believe.

Talking does no good.

He will be taken in at last."



"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_;
I would not have him duped;
I would have it all fair and honourable."



"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in.

It will do just as well.

Everybody is taken in at some period or other."



"Not always in marriage,
dear Mary."



"In marriage especially.

With all due respect
to such of the present company as chance
to be married,
my dear Mrs. Grant,
there is not one in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry.

Look where I will,
I see that it _is_ so;
and I feel that it _must_ be so,
when I consider that it is,
of all transactions,
the one in which people expect most from others,
and are least honest themselves."



"Ah! You have been in a bad school
for matrimony,
in Hill Street."



"My poor aunt had certainly little cause
to love the state;
but,
however,
speaking from my own observation,
it is a manoeuvring business.

I know so many who have married in the full expectation and confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion,
or accomplishment,
or good quality in the person,
who have found themselves entirely deceived,
and been obliged
to put up
with exactly the reverse.

What is this but a take in?"

"My dear child,
there must be a little imagination here.

I beg your pardon,
but I cannot quite believe you.

Depend upon it,
you see but half.

You see the evil,
but you do not see the consolation.

There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere,
and we are all apt
to expect too much;
but then,
if one scheme of happiness fails,
human nature turns
to another;
if the first calculation is wrong,
we make a second better:

we find comfort somewhere--and those evil-minded observers,
dearest Mary,
who make much of a little,
are more taken in and deceived than the parties themselves."



"Well done,
sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_.

When I am a wife,
I mean
to be just as staunch myself;
and I wish my friends in general would be so too.

It would save me many a heartache."



"You are as bad as your brother,
Mary;
but we will cure you both.

Mansfield shall cure you both,
and without any taking in.

Stay
with us,
and we will cure you."



The Crawfords,
without wanting
to be cured,
were very willing
to stay.

Mary was satisfied
with the Parsonage as a present home,
and Henry equally ready
to lengthen his visit.

He had come,
intending
to spend only a few days
with them;
but Mansfield promised well,
and there was nothing
to call him elsewhere.

It delighted Mrs. Grant
to keep them both
with her,
and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented
to have it so:

a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society
to an indolent,
stay-at-home man;
and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was an excuse
for drinking claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams'
admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than anything which Miss Crawford's habits made her likely
to feel.

She acknowledged,
however,
that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,
that two such young men were not often seen together even in London,
and that their manners,
particularly those of the eldest,
were very good.

_He_ had been much in London,
and had more liveliness and gallantry than Edmund,
and must,
therefore,
be preferred;
and,
indeed,
his being the eldest was another strong claim.

She had felt an early presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best.

She knew it was her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant,
indeed,
at any rate;
he was the sort of young man
to be generally liked,
his agreeableness was of the kind
to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a higher stamp,
for he had easy manners,
excellent spirits,
a large acquaintance,
and a great deal
to say;
and the reversion of Mansfield Park,
and a baronetcy,
did no harm
to all this.

Miss Crawford soon felt that he and his situation might do.

She looked about her
with due consideration,
and found almost everything in his favour:

a park,
a real park,
five miles round,
a spacious modern-built house,
so well placed and well screened as
to deserve
to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen's seats in the kingdom,
and wanting only
to be completely new furnished--pleasant sisters,
a quiet mother,
and an agreeable man himself--with the advantage of being tied up from much gaming at present by a promise
to his father,
and of being Sir Thomas hereafter.

It might do very well;
she believed she should accept him;
and she began accordingly
to interest herself a little about the horse which he had
to run at the B------- races.

These races were
to call him away not long after their acquaintance began;
and as it appeared that the family did not,
from his usual goings on,
expect him back again
for many weeks,
it would bring his passion
to an early proof.

Much was said on his side
to induce her
to attend the races,
and schemes were made
for a large party
to them,
with all the eagerness of inclination,
but it would only do
to be talked of.

And Fanny,
what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while?

and what was _her_ opinion of the newcomers?

Few young ladies of eighteen could be less called on
to speak their opinion than Fanny.

In a quiet way,
very little attended to,
she paid her tribute of admiration
to Miss Crawford's beauty;
but as she still continued
to think Mr. Crawford very plain,
in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the contrary,
she never mentioned _him_.

The notice,
which she excited herself,
was
to this effect.

"I begin now
to understand you all,
except Miss Price,"
said Miss Crawford,
as she was walking
with the Mr. BertraMs. "Pray,
is she out,
or is she not?

I am puzzled.

She dined at the Parsonage,
with the rest of you,
which seemed like being _out_;
and yet she says so little,
that I can hardly suppose she _is_."



Edmund,
to whom this was chiefly addressed,
replied,
"I believe I know what you mean,
but I will not undertake
to answer the question.

My cousin is grown up.

She has the age and sense of a woman,
but the outs and not outs are beyond me."



"And yet,
in general,
nothing can be more easily ascertained.

The distinction is so broad.

Manners as well as appearance are,
generally speaking,
so totally different.

Till now,
I could not have supposed it possible
to be mistaken as
to a girl's being out or not.

A girl not out has always the same sort of dress:

a close bonnet,
for instance;
looks very demure,
and never says a word.

You may smile,
but it is so,
I assure you;
and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,
it is all very proper.

Girls should be quiet and modest.

The most objectionable part is,
that the alteration of manners on being introduced into company is frequently too sudden.

They sometimes pass in such very little time from reserve
to quite the opposite--to confidence! _That_ is the faulty part of the present system.

One does not like
to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up
to every thing--and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able
to speak the year before.

Mr. Bertram,
I dare say _you_ have sometimes met
with such changes."



"I believe I have,
but this is hardly fair;
I see what you are at.

You are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."



"No,
indeed.

Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean.

I am quite in the dark.

But I _will_ quiz you
with a great deal of pleasure,
if you will tell me what about."



"Ah! you carry it off very well,
but I cannot be quite so far imposed on.

You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye,
in describing an altered young lady.

You paint too accurately
for mistake.

It was exactly so.

The Andersons of Baker Street.

We were speaking of them the other day,
you know.

Edmund,
you have heard me mention Charles Anderson.

The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented it.

When Anderson first introduced me
to his family,
about two years ago,
his sister was not _out_,
and I could not get her
to speak
to me.

I sat there an hour one morning waiting
for Anderson,
with only her and a little girl or two in the room,
the governess being sick or run away,
and the mother in and out every moment
with letters of business,
and I could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady-- nothing like a civil answer--she screwed up her mouth,
and turned from me
with such an air! I did not see her again
for a twelvemonth.

She was then _out_.

I met her at Mrs. Holford's,
and did not recollect her.

She came up
to me,
claimed me as an acquaintance,
stared me out of countenance;
and talked and laughed till I did not know which way
to look.

I felt that I must be the jest of the room at the time,
and Miss Crawford,
it is plain,
has heard the story."



"And a very pretty story it is,
and
with more truth in it,
I dare say,
than does credit
to Miss Anderson.

It is too common a fault.

Mothers certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their daughters.

I do not know where the error lies.

I do not pretend
to set people right,
but I do see that they are often wrong."



"Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be,"
said Mr. Bertram gallantly,
"are doing a great deal
to set them right."



"The error is plain enough,"
said the less courteous Edmund;
"such girls are ill brought up.

They are given wrong notions from the beginning.

They are always acting upon motives of vanity,
and there is no more real modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public than afterwards."



"I do not know,"
replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly.

"Yes,
I cannot agree
with you there.

It is certainly the modestest part of the business.

It is much worse
to have girls not out give themselves the same airs and take the same liberties as if they were,
which I have seen done.

That is worse than anything--quite disgusting!"

"Yes,
_that_ is very inconvenient indeed,"
said Mr. Bertram.

"It leads one astray;
one does not know what
to do.

The close bonnet and demure air you describe so well
(and nothing was ever juster),
tell one what is expected;
but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of them.

I went down
to Ramsgate
for a week
with a friend last September,
just after my return from the West Indies.

My friend Sneyd--you have heard me speak of Sneyd,
Edmund-- his father,
and mother,
and sisters,
were there,
all new
to me.

When we reached Albion Place they were out;
we went after them,
and found them on the pier:

Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds,
with others of their acquaintance.

I made my bow in form;
and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men,
attached myself
to one of her daughters,
walked by her side all the way home,
and made myself as agreeable as I could;
the young lady perfectly easy in her manners,
and as ready
to talk as
to listen.

I had not a suspicion that I could be doing anything wrong.

They looked just the same:

both well-dressed,
with veils and parasols like other girls;
but I afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention
to the youngest,
who was not _out_,
and had most excessively offended the eldest.

Miss Augusta ought not
to have been noticed
for the next six months;
and Miss Sneyd,
I believe,
has never forgiven me."



"That was bad indeed.

Poor Miss Sneyd.

Though I have no younger sister,
I feel
for her.

To be neglected before one's time must be very vexatious;
but it was entirely the mother's fault.

Miss Augusta should have been
with her governess.

Such half-and-half doings never prosper.

But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price.

Does she go
to balls?

Does she dine out every where,
as well as at my sister's?"

"No,"
replied Edmund;
"I do not think she has ever been
to a ball.

My mother seldom goes into company herself,
and dines nowhere but
with Mrs. Grant,
and Fanny stays at home
with _her_."



"Oh! then the point is clear.

Miss Price is not out."



CHAPTER VI Mr. Bertram set off for--------,
and Miss Crawford was prepared
to find a great chasm in their society,
and
to miss him decidedly in the meetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families;
and on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going,
she retook her chosen place near the bottom of the table,
fully expecting
to feel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters.

It would be a very flat business,
she was sure.

In comparison
with his brother,
Edmund would have nothing
to say.

The soup would be sent round in a most spiritless manner,
wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling,
and the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch,
or a single entertaining story,
about
"my friend such a one."



She must try
to find amusement in what was passing at the upper end of the table,
and in observing Mr. Rushworth,
who was now making his appearance at Mansfield
for the first time since the Crawfords'
arrival.

He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county,
and that friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver,
Mr. Rushworth was returned
with his head full of the subject,
and very eager
to be improving his own place in the same way;
and though not saying much
to the purpose,
could talk of nothing else.

The subject had been already handled in the drawing-room;
it was revived in the dining-parlour.

Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim;
and though her deportment showed rather conscious superiority than any solicitude
to oblige him,
the mention of Sotherton Court,
and the ideas attached
to it,
gave her a feeling of complacency,
which prevented her from being very ungracious.

"I wish you could see Compton,"
said he;
"it is the most complete thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life.

I told Smith I did not know where I was.

The approach _now_,
is one of the finest things in the country:

you see the house in the most surprising manner.

I declare,
when I got back
to Sotherton yesterday,
it looked like a prison-- quite a dismal old prison."



"Oh,
for shame!"

cried Mrs. Norris.

"A prison indeed?

Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world."



"It wants improvement,
ma'am,
beyond anything.

I never saw a place that wanted so much improvement in my life;
and it is so forlorn that I do not know what can be done
with it."



"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,"
said Mrs. Grant
to Mrs. Norris,
with a smile;
"but depend upon it,
Sotherton will have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire."



"I must try
to do something
with it,"
said Mr. Rushworth,
"but I do not know what.

I hope I shall have some good friend
to help me."



"Your best friend upon such an occasion,"
said Miss Bertram calmly,
"would be Mr. Repton,
I imagine."



"That is what I was thinking of.

As he has done so well by Smith,
I think I had better have him at once.

His terms are five guineas a day."



"Well,
and if they were _ten_,"
cried Mrs. Norris,
"I am sure _you_ need not regard it.

The expense need not be any impediment.

If I were you,
I should not think of the expense.

I would have everything done in the best style,
and made as nice as possible.

Such a place as Sotherton Court deserves everything that taste and money can do.

You have space
to work upon there,
and grounds that will well reward you.

For my own part,
if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton,
I should be always planting and improving,
for naturally I am excessively fond of it.

It would be too ridiculous
for me
to attempt anything where I am now,
with my little half acre.

It would be quite a burlesque.

But if I had more room,
I should take a prodigious delight in improving and planting.

We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage:

we made it quite a different place from what it was when we first had it.

You young ones do not remember much about it,
perhaps;
but if dear Sir Thomas were here,
he could tell you what improvements we made:

and a great deal more would have been done,
but
for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health.

He could hardly ever get out,
poor man,
to enjoy anything,
and _that_ disheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used
to talk of.

If it had not been
for _that_,
we should have carried on the garden wall,
and made the plantation
to shut out the churchyard,
just as Dr. Grant has done.

We were always doing something as it was.

It was only the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the apricot against the stable wall,
which is now grown such a noble tree,
and getting
to such perfection,
sir,"
addressing herself then
to Dr. Gr