But Scarlett had grown up in a world where it was... But Scarlett had grown up in a world where it was accepted
that sometimes a crop failed or a storm wrought havoc. She knew
that
next year would be different, and certainly better. She was not a
failure because of the disaster of the drought and the hail. It wasn't
like the lumber business or the store where she would have been
responsible if there had been no profit. Besides, the losses would
barely make a dent in her fortune. could be extravagant for the rest
of her life, and the crops at hara could fail every year, and she
would still have plenty of money Scarlett sighed unconsciously. For so
many years she worked and scrimped and saved, thinking that if only
she
could I enough money, she would be happy.
Now she had it, thanks Rhett, and somehow it didn't mean anything at
all. Except that t was no longer anything to work for, to scheme and
strive for. She wasn't foolish enough to want to be poor and despei
again, but she needed to be challenged, to use her quick" to conquer
obstacles. And so she thought with longing about jumping fences and
ditches and taking chances on a powerful horse she controlled by force
of will. When the accounts were done, Scarlett turned to the pile
personal mail with a silent groan. She hated writing letters. She
ready knew what was in the mail. Many were invitations. She them in
a
stack. harriet could pen the polite refusals for her, no would know
she hadn't written them herself, and harriet loved useful. There were
two more proposals. Scarlett received at least week. They pretended
to be love letters, but she knew very well they wouldn't be there if
she wasn't a rich widow.
Most of them, anyhow. She replied to the first one with the
convenient
phrases about "honored by your regard" and "unable to return your
affection to the degree you merit" and "place incalculable value on
your friendship" that protocol demanded and supplied. The second
was
not so easy. It was from Charles Ragland.
Of all the men she had met in Ireland, Charles was the most truly
eligible to her. His adoration was convincing, not at all like the
elaborate fawning over her that so many men did. he wasn't after her
money, she was sure of that. he came from money himself, his people
were big landowners in England. he was a younger son, and he'd
chosen
the army instead of the Church. But he must have some money of
his own.
His dress u in the convent soreeyed nuns
were
putting the final tiny stitches into exquisite lace. None of it
mattered. She must be home, waiting, when Rhett arrived. If only
John
Morland hadn't taken so long to tell her about everything, she could
have been on the Dublin train. Rhett might even be on it, he could
have been going anywhere when he left Bart's box. It took nearly
three
and a half hours to get to Moate, where Scarlett got out of the
train.
It was after four, but at least she was on her way, instead of on the
train that was just
cheap louis vuitton handbags leaving Galway. "Where can I buy a good horse?"
she asked the station master. "I don't care what it costs, as long as
it has a saddle and bridle and speed." She had almost fifty miles
still to go. The owner of the horse wanted to bargain. Wasn't that
half the pleasure of the selling? he asked his friends in the King's
Coach bar after he bought a pint for every man there. The crazy
woman
had thrown gold sovereigns at him and gone off like the devil was on
her trail. Astride! he didn't want to say how much lace she was
showing nor how much leg with no decent covering to it at all, only a
silk stocking and some boots not thick enough to walk on a floor with,
never even to imagine resting in a stirrup. Scarlett led the limping
horse across the bridge into Mullingar just before seven o'clock. At
the livery stable she handed the reins to a groom.
"Ne's not lame, just winded and with a weakness," she said. "Cool him
down slowly and he'll be as good as he ever was, not that he was ever
much. I'll give him to you if you'll sell me one of the hunters you
keep for the officers at the fort. Don't tell me you don't have any,
I've hunted with some of the officers, and I know where they rented
their mounts. Change over this saddle in under five minutes and
there's an extra guinea for you." By ten after seven she was on her
way, with twenty-six miles ahead and directions for a shortcut if she
went cross-country instead of following the road. She rode past Trim
Castle and onto the road to Ballyhara at nine o'clock. Every muscle in
her body ached, and her bones felt splintered. But she was only a
little over three miles from home, and the misty twilight was gentle
and soft on eyes and skin. A gentle rain began to fall. Scarlett
leaned forward, patted the horse's neck "A good walk around and
rubdown
and the best hot mash in Counrv Meath for you, whatever your name
is.
You took those jumps
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
replica prada fairy bag 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 too low. Stand up. Now back, back, back, three
steps, don't worry, the weight of the train holds it away from your
body. Now extend your left arm. Wait. Let the footman have plenty
of
time to arrange the train over your arm. Now turn. Walk out.
Scarlett's knees obligingly waited until she was seated at one of the
supper tables before they started trembling. Charlotte made no
attempt
to hide her satisfaction. She entered Scarlett's bedroom with the
stiff squares of white cardboard fanned in her hand. "My dear
Scarlett, you were a dazzling success. These invitations arrived
before even I was up and dressed. State Ball, that's quite special.
Saint Patrick's Ball, that was to be expected. Second Drawing Room,
you'll be able to watch other people running the gauntlet. And a small
dance in the Throne Room. Three-fourths of the peers in Ireland have
never been invited to one of the small dances."
his 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 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
dolce and gabbana handbag 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 toaansfield
Park
by
Jane Austen
A PENN STATE
ELECTRONIC CLASSICS SERIES
PUBLICATION
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen is a publication of the
Pennsylvania State University. This Portable Document
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Mansfield Park by Jane Austen, the Pennsylvania State
University, Electronic Classics Series, Jim Manis, Faculty
Editor, Hazleton, PA 18202-1291 is a Portable Document
File produced as part of an ongoing student publication
project to bring classical works of literature, in
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Copyright ? 2007 The Pennsylvania State University
The Pennsylvania State University is an equal opportunity university.
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
very cheap chanel bags 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 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
bag gucci ab