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Mansfield Park by Jane Austen, the Pennsylvania State
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3
Jane Austen
Mansfield Park
(1814)
by
Jane Austen
(1775-1817)
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
4
Mansfield Park
contemptible: Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend an
income in the living of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began
their Time
that
described them. Every evening she took the newspaper down to
Kennedy's
bar to show the people of Ballyhara how famous The O'hara was. Day
by
day, grumbling about Scarlett's fondness for the English gave way to
pride that The O 'hara was more admired than any of the Anglo
women.
Colum did not applaud Rosaleen Fitzpatrick's cleverness. His mood
was
too somber for him to see the humor in it. "The Anglos will seduce her
just as they're doing John Devoy," he said. Colum was both wrong
and
right. No one in Dublin wanted Scarlett to be less Irish. It was a
large part of her attractiveness. The
chanel costume jewelry O'hara was an original. But
Scarlett had discovered an unsettling truth. The Anglo-Irish thought
of themselves as being just as Irish as the O 'Naras of Adamstown.
"These families were living in Ireland before America was even
settled," Charlotte Montague said one day in irritation. "Now can you
call them anything but Irish?" Scarlett couldn't unravel the
complexities, so she stopped trying. She didn't really have to, she
decided. She could have both worlds -the Ireland of Ballyhara's farms
and the Ireland of Dublin Castle. Cat would have them, too, when she
grew up. And that's much better than she would have had if I'd
stayed
in Charleston, Scarlett told herself firmly. When the Saint Patrick's
Ball ended at four in the morning, the Castle Season was over. The
next event was some miles away in County Kildare. Everyone would
be at
the Punchestown Races, Charlotte told her. She'd be expected to be
there. Scarlett declined. "I love racing and horses, Charlotte, but
I'm ready to go home now. I'm late already with this month's office
hours. I'll pay for the hotel reservations you made." No need, said
Charlotte. She could sell them for four times their cost. And she
herself had no interest in horses. She thanked Scarlett for making her
an independent woman.
"You are independent now as well, Scarlett. You don't need me any
more. Stay on Mrs. Sims' good side and let her dress you. The
Shelbourne has reserved your rooms for next year's Season. Your
house
will accommodate all the guests you ever want to have, and your
housekeeper is the most professional woman I've ever met in that
position. You are in the world now. Do with it what you will."
"What will you do, Charlotte?"
"I will have what I always wanted.
A small apartment in a Roman palazzo. Good food, good wine, and
day
after day of sunlight. I abhhis will be over soon, and then I can go home to Tara. Scarlett O
'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler stood alone, a few steps away from the
other mourners at Melanie Wilkes' burial. It was raining, and the
black-clad men and women held black umbrellas over their heads.
They leaned on one another, the women weeping, sharing shelter and
grief. Scarlett shared her umbrella with no one, nor her grief. The
gusts of wind within the rain blew stinging cold wet rivulets under the
umbrella, down her neck, but she was unaware of them. She felt
nothing, she was numbed by loss. She would mourn later, when she
could
stand the pain. She held it away from her, all pain, all feeling, all
thinking. Except for the words that repeated again and again in her
mind, the words that promised healing from the pain to come and
strength to survive until she was healed. This will be over soon, and
then I can go home to Tara. ..... ashes to ashes, dust to dust ..."
The minister's voice penetrated the shell of numbness, the words
registered. No! Scarlett cried silently. Not Melly. That's
louis vuitton cherry blossoms not
Melly's grave, it's too big, she's so tiny, her bones no bigger than a
bird's. No! She can't be dead, she can't be.
Scarlett's head jerked to one side, denying the open grave, the plain
pine box being lowered into it. There were small half circle sunk into
the soft wood, marks of the hammers that had driven the nails to close
the lid above Melanie's gentle, loving, heart-shape face. No!
You can't, you mustn't do this, it's raining, you can't put her there
where the rain will fall on her. She feels the cold so, she mustn't be
left in the cold rain. I can't watch, I can't bear it, I won't believe
she's gone. She loves me, she is my friend, my only true friend.
Melly
loves me, she wouldn't leave me now just when I need her most.
Scarlett
looked at the people surrounding the grave, and anger surged through
her. None of them care as much as I do, nor of them have lost as
much
as I have. No one knows how much I love her. Melly knows, though,
doesn't she? She knows, I've got to believe she knows. They'll never
believe it, though. Not Mrs. Merriwether, or the Meades or the
Whitings or the Elsings. Look at them, bunched around India Wilkes
and
Ashley, like a flock of wet crows in mourning clothes. They're
comforting Aunt Pittypat, all right, though everybody knows she
takes on and cries her eyes out ovoe every little thing, down to a piece
of toa
panoply. At bottom, Scarlett had never in her life backed down from a
challenge and never would. Another name was called. Not hers.
God's
nightgown! We they going to make her be last? Charlotte hadn't
warned
her that. Charlotte hadn't even told her until the last minute that
she' be alone all the way. "I'll find you in the supper room after
Drawing Room is over." That was a fine way to treat her, throw.. her
to the wolves like that. She stole another glance down her She was
terrified that she might just fall right out of the scandalc low-cut
gown. That would really make this-what had C said? "An experience
to
remember."
"Madam The O'hara of Ballyhara." Oh, Lord, that's me. She repeated
Charlotte Montague'sing litany to herself. Walk forward, stop outside
the door. A will lift the train you have looped over your left arm and
arrange behind you. The Gentleman Usher will open the doors. Wait
for
to announce you. "Madam The O'hara of Ballyhara." Scarlett looked
at
the Throne Room. Well, Pa, what do you think of your Katie Scarlett
now? she thought. I'm going to stroll along that fifty miles or so of
red carpet runner and kiss the Viceroy of Ireland, cousin of the Queen
of England. She glanced at the majestically dressed Gentleman Usher,
and her right eyelid quivered in what might almost have been a
conspiratorial wink. The O 'hara walked like an empress to face the
Viceroy's redbearded magnificence and present her cheek for the
ceremonial kiss of welcome. Turn to the Vicereine now and curtsey.
Back straight. Not
d