by Lona Manning
But never mind it, my Fanny. One day we shall have our own little cottage by the sea and we can bid defiance to all overbearing aunts and cold-hearted cousins.
One night when Fanny was invited to dine with the Smallridges and their guests, and there happening to be an excellent wine served with dinner, Fanny observed with trepidation as Mr. Smallridge, partaking freely, grew ever more satirical in his remarks, while his glittering eyes followed every speaker around the table, until finally, interrupting his wife, he gestured at Fanny and said, “have you noticed, Honoria, how seldom Miss Price speaks, but, when she does speak, what good sense she utters? Is not her voice soft and pleasing? Have you observed, supposing you capable of noticing these nice points, that her grammar is unfailingly correct, her words well chosen, her discourse elegant and modest? That is the mark of a true gentlewoman, ‘pon my word.
“Miss Price,” he said, addressing her directly, “you will please to see to it—I charge you straitly—that Caroline will learn how to speak and to comport herself as a gentlewoman, as you do. My wife, for all of her advantages, was not bred up to it.” Fanny looked down at her plate and flushed crimson, out of embarrassment for herself and mortification for her mistress. But her host had turned his attention back to his wife.
“My advantages?” his lady returned sharply. “I can only suppose you mean—”
“Your beauty, of course, my dear, and your complaisant air, Honoria. Ah, Honoria!” and Fanny perceived he was not addressing his wife but meditating aloud on her name, something he perhaps had done many times before, judging by the way Mrs. Smallridge quietly sighed and laid down her fork. “What an appellation! It is only the lower orders which give their daughters these presumptuous Christian names, coupled with family names such as—such as—pray dear, what was your name before you took mine? I do not recollect.”
“When you was courting me, you could bring yourself to say my name without a sneer, I do recollect.”
“Oh, yes—who would not take pleasure in coupling the super-fine, elegant name of Honoria with, with—Blodgett! Honoria Blodgett! Honoria Blodgett! There is a music in the sound! Well, my dear, now that we are fettered together for all eternity, I trust you are not unhappy to exchange your initials for mine? I think you were delighted to seal your end of the bargain and sign ‘Blodgett’ for the last time on our wedding articles.”
“As you were delighted to receive my father’s settlement on me!”
“Alas, my charming simpleton, you can leave the name behind, but you can never leave your origins behind. You betray yourself with every movement, every word, in every choice that your taste, if it can be so called, dictates in the way of dress, hair and ornament. How do you contrive to spend so much money to so little good effect?”
Wounded silence was his wife’s only rejoinder and to Fanny’s infinite relief, Mrs. Butters interposed, “pray, Mr. Smallridge, when do you think the new stables will be completed?” To Fanny’s astonishment, her host took up the new theme as though his insults to his wife were not still hanging heavy in the air in front of them all, and horses and stables, paddocks and breeding, formed the balance of the conversation until the ladies withdrew. Fanny soon excused herself to take a solitary cup of tea in the schoolroom, leaving Mrs. Smallridge to recover her dignity in the company of her aunt and the other female guests. While Mrs. Smallridge gave no indication that she resented Fanny for being singled out for praise, Fanny could not believe that her company could be wanted.
Sheltered as she had been, Fanny could not even conceive of a married couple who saved their bitterest upbraidings for just such times as there were witnesses to hear them. Fanny was accustomed to the measured, steady tones of her uncle regulating the discourse at every family dinner. She had never seen him affected by strong drink. Her cousin Tom only grew more jovial after his customary half bottle, while Edmund was nearly indifferent to ardent spirits and never overindulged. She had vague memories of her own father, and his horrid breath after he returned from drinking punch with his old sailing comrades, but in her childish recollections his voice, though invariably loud and alarming to one of her tender sensibilities, was not raised in anger, and while he had often spoken his irritation at one or another of his children, and predicted their sorrowful but deserved ends, his tone had never betrayed true vexation or malice.
Mr. Smallridge’s cruelty, his suddenly unleashed vituperation, was something new, something she had heard of but never witnessed—the abrupt change of temperament, the sudden gathering of the storm clouds, unpredictable and unwanted, which can sometimes be averted but more frequently must be endured. She was to be the unwilling witness to a number of family quarrels in the ensuing weeks; there were raised voices echoing in the hallways, frosty silences in the evening when they gathered in the parlour, all of which gave rise to the conviction on Fanny’s part that no woman would knowingly marry a man of such temperament. No material comforts or elevation in the world could compensate for the uncertain footing the wife of such a man must endure, not knowing from one night to another if she was to be praised and caressed, or insulted and belittled, studying in vain for the secret which would enable her to obtain the former and prevent the latter. Such a woman must harden herself to ignore his insults as proceeding from nothing more than the overthrow of his reason by liquor, and, if she was at last successful in becoming indifferent to her husband’s censure, would inevitably become disgusted with his praise. Once a wife lost respect for her husband, or a husband for his wife, no true sympathy or confidence could exist between them, to say nothing of more tender feelings. The sight of such domestic unhappiness, so readily avoidable by common sense, decorum, and good principles, even where true affection did not exist or had subsided, gave Fanny much material for meditation.
Fanny’s reflections enabled her to regard Mrs. Smallridge with even more sympathy than heretofore. Fanny now understood her bitter remarks, her suspicious air, her discontent when Mr. Smallridge was away from home and her cold demeanour when he returned.
She would not have wanted to trade places with her mistress, no, and if a sympathetic genie suddenly appeared and offered to whisk away the school-room, the tedious sameness of the long mornings bent over multiplication tables and map puzzles, the long evenings without intelligent companionship and only the prattle of the nursery maid for company, in exchange for being thus harnessed, she believed she would decline and send him back to his lamp.
The faults of her host only served to summon to her mind more frequently the perfections of Edmund, and it was with more poignancy, more tender gratitude, that she contemplated every moment she had spent in his company. His even temper, his rational and well-judging mind, his candour, his quiet wit, his gentleman-like courtesy, coupled with his unaffected delight in all that elevated the mind, such as music, poetry, and nature—all taken together, was to Fanny a portrait of masculine perfection. When her mind wandered, as it frequently did, to scenes of the past, she could sometimes fancy him suddenly appearing before her, entering the schoolroom, or, when she walked on the terrace with Caroline and Edward, she imagined his form, far in the distance yet instantly recognizable to her, astride a horse, drawing ever nearer, until at last he was close enough to bend down to greet her. Their eyes would meet and his expression would tell her that he understood everything and he would ask her, nay beg her—but here she would shake her head and return all her attention to the children.
* * * * * *
Observing the settled melancholy which hung over Maria and Julia, which no holiday excursions in the neighbourhood could alloy, Sir Thomas, after much deliberation, resolved upon a change of scene and formulated a proposal such as could not fail to delight both his daughters. Although he had seen no profits from Antigua in recent years, he resolved on the expense of taking a house in London after Christmas, so his daughters could enjoy the Season in that great metropolis. He could not but acknowledge that, had his wife’s spirits, health and inclination been other than they were,
the family would no doubt have lived half the year in London for these many years, particularly after Maria’s coming out. Remaining in the country had deprived his daughters of meeting many eligible young men, and he desired to see Julia well settled, especially after the scandalous failure of Maria’s engagement to Mr. Rushworth.
The problem arose: who was to chaperone his daughters when they attended the various soirées and balls that the Season offered? As Sir Thomas pondered the question, it appeared inevitable that his sister-in-law, Mrs. Norris, and not his own wife, would be the one to sit with the other dowagers and mothers until the small hours of the morning, watching the couples dance and flirt, as Lady Bertram’s disinclination for exertion exceeded her interest in her children’s doings. Thus Sir Thomas resigned himself to Mrs. Norris quitting the White house, where she nominally lived—for indeed she spent more than half of her days and nights at Mansfield Park—to serve as the female head of the proposed London establishment.
Sir Thomas also asked Edmund to postpone his ordination to escort his sisters about London. The delay would be inconsequential, and in fact should a brief residence in London serve to confirm Edmund’s preference for the country, it would strengthen his ties to Thornton Lacey and his intended profession. Sir Thomas made no secret that he reposed greater confidence in Edmund’s judgement and propriety of conduct than in his elder brother’s, and reasoned that the welfare of his daughters was better placed in Edmund’s hands.
Sir Thomas consulted his old friend in the City for his recommendation for an address just fashionable enough to support the dignity of a baronet’s family but as moderate as to expense as possible; an elegant but compact residence on Wimpole Street was decided upon, the news imparted to his family at Christmas dinner as a sort of Christmas present, and Sir Thomas had all the satisfaction of seeing his daughters restored to more than their usual vivacity, while Mrs. Norris’s pleasure in the prospect was very little less than her nieces. Lady Bertram, once she comprehended the scheme, and understood that it was to remove every creature from Mansfield Park but herself and her husband, was inclined to pity herself very much, and sighed anew for the missing Fanny who, had she been there, would certainly not have been one of the party going to London. But on the whole, Sir Thomas believed he had chosen wisely and the benefits were in evidence even before its fulfillment, for the joyful news helped to heal the breach between the two Misses Bertram. Their former habitual good understanding was almost completely restored as they exulted over every detail of the proposed stay, where they would go, what they would wear, and who they would meet. They pictured themselves at Almack’s and Vauxhall Gardens, acknowledged as the foremost beauties of the Season with clouds of admirers trailing in their wake, and for Maria, there was that added anticipation of appearing, at long last, as the acknowledged future wife of Henry Crawford!
The sisters were swift in communicating their happy prospects to their neighbour, Mary Crawford, who discovered that she, too, had intended to return to London for a time, as her good friend Mrs. Fraser had invited her for many weeks and could no longer be put off. She exulted in the thought that Edmund’s ordination was to be postponed for months, as it afforded her more time to persuade him to choose another course in life.
Dr. and Mrs. Grant and their sister were invited to a farewell dinner, and Sir Thomas discovered it to be an occasion for regret that he had not made his neighbour Miss Crawford’s acquaintance heretofore. She was seated at his right, and at first he thought she talked a little too much and a little too fast for his liking, but he could not help but observe that as they spoke together, she grew ever more fascinated with his remarks, and thereafter said little, except to invite him to expound some more on whatever topic he chose to introduce, and her modest, respectful demeanour, so becoming to a young woman, recommended her to him even more than her undoubted elegance and beauty.
Edmund, who was seated at the other end of the table, had to content himself with admiring Miss Crawford’s profile as she turned and looked up at his father, and the admiration and respect on her countenance; the obvious mutual sympathy and friendship that so quickly developed between his father and the woman he loved was more than sufficient consolation. He could picture her seated beside his father, at all the special family dinners to come, as dear to him as any of his daughters. He saw the introduction of a grandson and a granddaughter to gladden his father’s heart, and the vision of the years of felicity that beckoned from the future, filled Edmund with a longing such as he had never known.
Mary herself finished the dinner tolerably satisfied with her performance. She had made the error, when first sitting down, of chattering gaily, as she was wont to do when entertaining Dr. Grant, but quickly adopted herself to Sir Thomas’ more measured tones, and soon discovered that she need do little but listen and nod and encourage the quaint old gentleman, and she flattered herself that she had won yet another conquest by the time the final course was laid.
Sir Thomas escorted her to his carriage at the end of the evening, and expressed the wish that his children might have the pleasure of meeting her in London during the season.
“What, Sir Thomas, will we never see you?” enquired his fair guest, hanging on his arm with every appearance of regret.
“Perhaps, and only briefly, Miss Crawford, from time to time, as either my daughters’ calendar requires or my own business interests may direct. But I trust that my son, Edmund Bertram, will prove to be a not unacceptable substitute in London when my duties keep me here at Mansfield, and I have no doubt Mrs. Norris looks forward to welcoming you at Wimpole Street, when you can be spared from your many social engagements elsewhere.” Sir Thomas parted from the young lady in a very benign mood. While disdaining even as a littleness the being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving that his son Edmund was earnestly attracted to the heiress, and so Sir Thomas was well-pleased at the prospect of the young people meeting frequently in London, a circumstance that would, he trusted, compensate his son for the sacrifice in postponing taking up his career.
Mary had a further, final, smile and nod for Edmund, and so the two families parted, with the conviction on Edmund’s part that their future meetings in London must conclude matters between himself and Miss Crawford, one way or another. He would, he must, ask her to be his wife, and now he had only to ask himself, how far could he bend, how much could he give way, for her to say “yes”? He would be ordained, Thornton Lacey would be his home, but—was it, after all, essential that they reside there every month of the year if he engaged a competent curate to assist him in his duties? Could a compromise be reached between himself and the lady? If she should prefer to reside in London, relying upon her own income, for some part of the year—could his pride endure such an arrangement? He could not find an answer but he hoped, he almost believed, she was as desirous of finding a solution to their dilemma as himself.
* * * * * *
Shortly after the New Year, Mrs. Norris, with angry triumph, baited Sir Thomas in his study one morning, carrying the urgent news that one of the upper housemaids was with child, and had named her partner in shame—the scene-painter from London! Mrs. Norris waited expectantly for Sir Thomas’ thanks and his assurance that the young person would be turned from the house before nightfall, but to her dismay he replied, “Scene-painter? I do not know of a scene-painter from London. Are there to be some theatrical exhibitions in the vicinity? How did a scene-painter gain entrance to my home to make his insinuations among my servants?”
For in her zeal to denounce the servant, Mrs. Norris had forgotten that the entire episode of the Mansfield theatricals had been successfully kept from Sir Thomas’ notice, save an absent-minded remark or two from Lady Bertram, which Sir Thomas had interpreted to mean that the young people had entertained their mother with dramatic readings in the evening. Now, in consequence of the acuity and persistence of Sir Thomas in asking questions and drawing inferences, Mrs. Norris had to reveal the truth, so within a qua
rter of an hour he was pretty much apprised of the entire episode from start to finish—the selection of a play whose central theme was the seduction of innocent maidens, the building of the stage, the monies laid out on the scene-painter, etc., and he also came to the realization that, had Tom never proposed this means of diversion, his daughter Maria might be the respectably married Mrs. Rushworth today.
Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas.
Her only resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to general attention to the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail.
After this unsatisfactory interview, Sir Thomas also understood why he had been quietly revising his estimation of Mrs. Norris, to her disadvantage, since his return from Antigua. She had always insinuated herself into the affairs of his household, owing chiefly to the complacency of his wife (he would not name it as indolence, not even to himself), and he had professed himself grateful for her solicitude for his family and his concerns. But during his extended absence, his sister-in-law had come to regard herself as the chief superintendent of Mansfield Park, a rôle which she would not or could not easily relinquish. And not only had she made herself irksome to his servants, her overbearing and censorious manner to Fanny, he speculated, may well have caused his sensitive niece no small amount of discomfiture. Mrs. Norris’ removal to London would at least take her from under his roof at Mansfield Park for a time, but as she would be standing in loco parentis for his daughters, he knew that her conception of herself as the guiding force of the family would be strengthened, rather than diminished. It was to be regretted, but he could see no alternative.
