Murder at Mansfield Park (12 page)

‘Mr Tiresome Norris bores me more than I can say,’ said Miss Price with feeling. ‘So dull, so wretchedly
dull
! He pays no compliments, he has no wit, and if that were not bad enough, his taste in dress is deplorable, and he has no refined conversation; all he wants to do indoors is talk about books, and all he ever does outside is ride. A deadly tedious life mine would be with the oh-so-estimable Mr Norris.’

Mr Rushworth laughed knowingly. ‘Perhaps Mr Norris has recently found someone who might share these dreary interests of his?’

Miss Price gave him a look which marked her contempt. ‘She is welcome to him. A woman who has the audacity to attach herself to a man already promised to another, as
she
has done, will surely have no scruple in taking up that other’s cast-offs.’

‘And you, my dear—my
very
dear Miss Price,’ said he, leaning still closer, ‘what will
you
now do? There must surely be countless suitors contending for the honour of your hand.’

Miss Price drew away slightly, and began to circle the small glade before the gate. ‘Not so many as you might imagine, sir. But I have no doubt of acquiring them, once it becomes known that the engagement with Mr Norris is broken off.’

‘So if there happened to be another gentleman who professed the most sincere attachment to Miss Price—nay, not merely an attachment but the most ardent, disinterested love—it might be as well for that gentleman to declare himself without delay?’

Miss Price looked at him haughtily. ‘It might be as well for that gentleman to begin by demonstrating, beyond question, that all those ardent feelings are for Miss
Price,
and not for Miss
Bertram
.’

‘My dear Miss Price,’ he cried, making towards her,‘how could you even imagine—you are so
infinitely
her superior. In beauty, in spirit, in—’

‘In
fortune
, sir?’

He stopped, and looked for a moment exceedingly foolish, but Miss Price turned away, smiling privately to herself, content, for the moment, with so complete a conquest, and not above a wish to sport with her new-declared lover a little, by way of punishment for his recent neglect.

‘What is that knoll, I wonder?’ she said, looking through the gate. ‘Might we not obtain a more comprehensive view of the park from there? Such a survey being, after all, the principal reason for our visit?’

‘Indeed—I am sure,’ said Mr Rushworth, in evident embarrassment. ‘That is, I imagine—’

‘Oh, but of course, the gate is locked,’ she said, a moment later, in a tone of some vexation. ‘Why is it that it is only ever the
gardeners
who can go where they like in places like this?’

‘I did wonder whether I should bring the key,’ he stammered. ‘Indeed, I was on the point of asking the housekeeper whether I might have the key—’

‘That may very well be so,’ she said archly, ‘but it does not advance us very far. We cannot get through without it.’

Mr Rushworth bowed. ‘I will remedy my mistake at once,’ said he in a tone of decision. ‘If Miss Price would do me the infinite honour of awaiting me here, I will return without delay.’

Miss Price bowed her complaisance, and Mr Rushworth set off at some speed towards the house.

Miss Price was on the point of resuming her circuit of the glade, and to judge of her expression, with no very unpleasant sensations, but no sooner was Mr Rushworth out of sight when Miss Bertram emerged from her hiding place to confront her startled and affrighted cousin.

‘So this is your plan, is it?’ said Maria in an angry tone. ‘You mean to discard our gentle, upright, honest cousin for such a—a—
fop
as Rushworth?’

‘As to
that
,’ said Miss Price, reddening with astonishment and disdain, ‘even were he the most infamous fop in England, I do not think
you
would have refused him, had he made you an offer. But he did
not
make you an offer, did he?’

‘No,’ said Maria bitterly, seizing her cousin by the wrist, ‘because
you
saw to it that he did not. Can you never allow me anyone or any thing of my own, but you have to seize it from me? He admired me, I know he did, and it wanted only a little encouragement to turn that admiration into a decided attachment. A very little encouragement, and a very reasonable forbearance on your part. But no—even
that
, you could not permit me. Even though you were already pledged to another man—and honourably, publicly pledged at that.’

‘Do not delude yourself,’ said Fanny angrily, snatching her hand from Maria’s grasp. ‘You may have seen admiration;
I
saw only an idle flirtation—a passing and frivolous gallantry. Whatever you may have hoped, you and your pitiable portion would never have been sufficient to attach a man like Mr Rushworth. You may take
my
word for that.’

These words drew a gasp and a cry of anguish from Maria. ‘I wish you had
never
come to Mansfield,’ she sobbed: ‘We were all of us perfectly happy before
you
came—I wish I had never seen you—I wish—I wish you were
dead
.’

For a single dreadful moment Julia thought her sister was about to strike her cousin; but the next thing she knew, Maria had turned away without another word, and was making her way, not very steadily, towards the house. When she reached the steps Julia saw her stumble blindly, and put her hand out to break her fall. Fanny, for her part, stood motionless for some minutes, leaning against the gate for support, her face and lips quite white.

Julia was thrown into a state of dreadful indecision, uncertain whether to remain where she was, or go to offer her sister some assistance, and thereby reveal what she had overheard; but she was soon relieved of the necessity of action by the appearance of Henry Crawford, who had been wandering about the grounds for some time, in search of Miss Price. He had seen her with Rushworth half an hour before, but had been detained at the critical moment by the housekeeper. Having but this minute extricated himself, he was now in the happy but unexpected situation of being face to face with the real object of his attentions. More gratifying still, the young lady was alone, and—to his eye—very much in need of all the relief and support he was only too willing to proffer. She was trembling, and at first she could only cling to his arm, as he helped her to a small rustic seat some yards farther on. The first fit soon passed, however, and in another moment she was able to recollect herself, and make a strong effort for composure, while still refusing in the most strenuous terms to disclose the cause of her distress. Mr Crawford elected not to press her on the subject, while indulging in the private hope that the whole blame of it might be laid to his rival’s account.

‘I believe I saw Rushworth on my way here,’ he said, curious to see her reaction. ‘He was posting away as if upon life and death.’

Miss Price smiled, roused from her indisposition by such pleasing evidence of her power. ‘He is gone to fetch the key to the gate,’ she said. ‘I wanted to see the view from the knoll.’

‘Then I am delighted to be in a position to assist you,’ said Henry, taking the key from his pocket, while carefully omitting to mention that it was this very key that Mr Rushworth was at that moment in quest of.

Miss Price rose from her seat, and took Mr Crawford’s arm. ‘So much you have done here, Mr Crawford!’ she said, with forced gaiety. ‘And to think that Mansfield may look like this in another summer! I confess I long for such freedom and openness as you have created here. Mansfield seems to me more and more like a prison—a dismal old prison. “I cannot get out”, as the starling said.’

‘To tell you the truth,’ replied Henry, speaking rather lower, ‘I do not think that
I
shall ever see Mansfield again with so much pleasure as I do now. Even my own plans will hardly improve it in
some
ways.’

He moved closer to her as he spoke, and they were too far away for Julia to discern what happened next, but when she saw her cousin’s face again her colour was heightened, and she was breathing rather faster than usual.

‘You are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world,’ Miss Price continued, somewhat abstractedly. ‘If other people think Mansfield improved, I have no doubt that you will.’

Henry smiled, and took her arm with more confidence and cheerfulness than he had thought possible even an hour before. ‘I am afraid that there is little prospect of that.
Your
prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits.’

‘Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally I conclude. Yes, certainly, the sun shines and the park looks very cheerful. And I am absolutely at liberty to command my
own
path.’

‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said Henry, with a serious look, as he unlocked the gate and the two of them disappeared from view.

Julia was again left to her uneasy solitude. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with a very anxious desire of seeing her companions again. But soon the voice of Miss Crawford once more caught her ear. They were just returned into the wilderness from the park, to which a side gate, not fastened, had tempted them very soon after their leaving her.

‘We have been admiring the view,’ said Mary, though in truth, they had passed a greater part of the time in silence. As soon as they were alone, Mr Norris’s politeness and cordiality had vanished, and he had become silent and thoughtful. Mary had been at a loss to think of a subject that they might attempt with impunity; every thing brought back some painful recollection—the play, the ball, the ride to Compton, all were equally impossible, and she had at length given up the endeavour.

Julia rose at once from the bench at their approach, and drew Mary to one side. ‘I must speak with you,’ she said, in the utmost perturbation.

‘Certainly,’ said Mary, looking at her with some concern. ‘I hope nothing has occurred to distress you. Do you wish me to find a place where we may be more private?’

‘No,’ said Julia with uncharacteristic firmness, glancing across at Edmund. ‘I cannot discuss this here. Could you come to the Park tomorrow?’

‘Of course. I shall call as early as politeness permits.’

‘Thank you, thank you!’ said Julia, the colour rushing to her face. ‘My dear Miss Crawford, I shall have no peace until I can confide in you!’

They returned to the house together, where they found Tom Bertram, who had for some time been lounging on the sopha reading reviews, awaiting the arrival of tea.

‘There you are at last!’ he cried as the three of them came in. ‘I have had quite enough of improvements for one day, I can tell you. What with wildernesses and terraces and pleasure-grounds, I managed to get myself thoroughly lost. Quite where the rest of you were I cannot tell, but thankfully I came unexpectedly upon the gamekeeper, and spent a capital half hour discussing snipe and pheasant. The covies here are some of the best in the country.’

It was late before the other young ladies and gentlemen came in; Miss Price and Henry Crawford arrived first, followed by Miss Bertram, and finally Mr Rushworth in the company of Mrs Norris. By their own accounts they had been all walking about after each other in the heat, and none but Henry appeared to be entirely happy with the day’s events.
He
certainly looked contented— triumphant even—while Miss Price was more withdrawn and thoughtful, and there was a slight disorder to her dress that could not be entirely explained, even by the rigours of a walk to the knoll. Mr Rushworth, by contrast, was positively ill-tempered, and looked all the more so when he found Miss Price in the company of Henry Crawford, but received no apology for her earlier disappearance. Maria, meanwhile, looked pale and troubled in mind, and was holding her shawl wrapped close around her shoulders; nor could all Mrs Norris’s attempts to put her in the way of Mr Rushworth, and procure her the seat on the barouche box, suffice to restore her to the state of artificial high spirits with which she had begun the day.

The last arrival was soon followed by tea, a ten miles’ drive home allowing no waste of hours, and from the time of their sitting down, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door. It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was outwardly as pleasant as the serenity of nature could make it; but it was altogether a different matter to the ladies within. Their spirits were in general exhausted—all were absorbed in their own thoughts, and Fanny and Maria in particular, seemed intent on avoiding one another’s eye. The party stopped at the parsonage to take leave of the Crawfords, and then continued on to the Park, where Mr Rushworth was invited to come in and take a glass of wine, before resuming the journey to Sotherton. But the company had scarcely entered the drawing-room when Lady Bertram rose from the sopha to meet them, came forward with no indolent step, and falling on her son’s neck, cried, ‘Oh, Tom, Tom! What are we to do?’

CHAPTER VIII

Nothing can convey the alarm and distress of the party. Sir Thomas was dead! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured any where. Lady Bertram’s looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable. It was a terrible pause; every heart was suggesting, ‘What will become of us? What is to be done now?’

Edmund was the first to move and speak again. ‘My dear madam, what has happened?’ he asked, helping his aunt to a chair, but Lady Bertram could only hold out the letter she had been clutching, and exclaim in the anguish of her heart, ‘Oh, Edmund, if I had known, I would never have allowed him to go!’

Entrusting Lady Bertram to her daughters’ care, Edmund turned quickly to the letter.

‘He is
not
dead!’ he cried a moment later, anxious to give what immediate comfort was within his power. Julia sat down in the nearest chair, unable to support herself, and Tom started forward, saying, ‘Then what is the matter? For God’s sake, Edmund, tell us what has happened!’

‘He is not dead, but he
is
very ill. The letter is from a Mr Croxford, a physician in Keswick. It appears my uncle elected to undertake an inspection of the property on horseback, and suffered a dreadful fall, and a serious contusion to his head. It was some hours before he was missed, and several more before he was discovered, by which time he was unconscious, and very cold, and had bled a good deal. This Mr Croxford was sent for at once, and initial progress was good. That afternoon he opened his eyes—’