Free Mansfield Park (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) by Jane Austen Page A

one.’
    ‘What is to prevent you?’
    ‘Everything. My situation—my foolishness and awkwardness.’
    ‘As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion.’
    ‘You are too kind,’ said Fanny, colouring at such praise; ‘how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me? Oh, cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my life.’
    ‘Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off, instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the year. The only difference will be, that, living with your aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. Here, there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with her you will be forced to speak for yourself.’
    ‘Oh, do not say so.’
    ‘I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.’
    Fanny sighed, and said, ‘I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to anybody! — Here , I know I am of none, and yet I love the place so well.’
    ‘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