Murder at Mansfield Park (13 page)

‘So he is better—he is recovered!’ cried Julia in all the agony of renewed hope.

‘—but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness, and by the evening he was alternating between fits of dangerous delirium in which he scarce knew his own name, and moments of lucidity, when he seemed almost himself. At the time of writing, Mr Croxford admits that the signs are still alarming, but he talks with hope of the improvement which a fresh mode of treatment might procure. “
Before he sank into his present wildness
,”’ Edmund continued, his voice sinking, ‘“
Sir Thomas begged me to ensure
that this letter should go to Mansfield at once, and by private
messenger. Knowing himself to be in danger, and fearing that he
may never see his beloved family again, he demanded a promise
from me, with all the strength and urgency which illness could
command, that I would communicate to you his wish, perhaps his
dying wish—
”’

Edmund stopped a moment, then added, in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, ‘I think, perhaps, that it would be better if we deferred the discussion of such a subject until tomorrow—it is a matter of some delicacy.’

Mr Rushworth offered at once to withdraw, but Miss Bertram stopped him, saying, ‘What is it, Edmund? What are my father’s wishes?’

‘Very well,’ said Edmund, with resignation. ‘Mr Croxford writes as follows: “
Sir Thomas directs that there should no longer
be any delay in the celebration of the marriage between his niece and
Mr Norris. If he should be doomed never to return, it would give him
the last, best comfort to know that he had ensured the happiness of
two young people so very dear to him. He only wishes that he could
be sure that his own children were as nobly and as eligibly settled
.”’

Every eye turned upon Miss Price, who, conscious of their scrutiny, rose to her feet and said in an unsteady voice, ‘You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,’ before running out of the room.

Mrs Norris made to follow her, unable to suppress a look of triumph and exultation at such an unlooked-for resolution to all her difficulties, but Edmund firmly prevented her. ‘She is distressed, madam. It will all be better left until tomorrow, when we will have had the advantage of sleep. In the mean time, Mr Rushworth, I would be most grateful if you would assist us in keeping the whole affair from public knowledge for the time being, until we receive further news.’

Mr Rushworth readily assured them of his secrecy, expressed his sorrow for their suffering, and requested their permission to call the following morning, before taking his leave.

The evening passed without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless, and the following morning brought no relief. Those of the family who appeared for breakfast were quiet and dejected; Tom was the only one among them who seemed disposed for speech, wondering aloud how he would ever be able to assume all his father’s responsibilities.

‘Someone must speak to the steward, and then there is the bailiff,’ he said, half to himself, ‘and of course there are the improvements. I will walk down to the parsonage this morning and see Crawford myself. He should know immediately. I think we may safely confide in the Crawfords. Knowing my father, as they do, they will be genuinely distressed at this dreadful news.’

The Grants were not at home, but the Crawfords received the news with all the sympathy and concern required by such painful tidings; Mary had barely comprehended the consequences of his disclosure, and Henry was still expressing their wishes for a happier conclusion to his father’s illness than there was at present reason to hope, when Mr Bertram threw them into even greater amazement.

‘I am grateful for your kind condolences, which I will convey to my mother and sisters,’ he said, ‘and if Miss Crawford were to favour them with her company at the Park tomorrow, I am sure they would be thankful for any assistance she might be able to offer with the preparations. Though needless to say, we intend to keep matters within a much smaller circle than was originally intended.’

He stopped, seeing their looks of incomprehension. ‘Forgive me, my thoughts are somewhat distracted. But every thing considered, I see no reason why you should not know. Sir Thomas has expressed his wish that the marriage between Edmund and Fanny might take place at once. Indeed I was hoping to see Dr Grant, that I might consult him about the service.’

‘I see,’ said Mary, rising from her chair and going over to her work-table to hide her perturbation.

‘So Miss Price and Mr Norris are to marry at last,’ said Henry, with studied indifference. ‘And when, precisely, are we to wish them joy?’

‘As soon as Edmund returns. He left this morning for Cumberland. In the mean time, we await further news,’ he concluded, in a more serious tone, ‘but I fear that the next letter may simply confer an even greater obligation upon us to hasten the accomplishment of my father’s wishes.’

Mr Bertram departed soon after, and Henry following him out, Mary was left alone. Her mind was in the utmost confusion and dismay. It was exactly as she had expected, and yet it was beyond belief!

‘Oh, Edmund!’ she said to herself. ‘How can you be so blind! Will
nothing
open your eyes? Surely Sir Thomas would not insist on this wedding if he knew your true feelings! Or those of his niece! Oh! If I could believe Miss Price to deserve you, it would be—how different would it be! But it is all too late. You will marry, and you will be miserable, and there is nothing anyone else can do to prevent it.’

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned brought on a head-ache. Her usual practice under such circumstances would be to go out for an hour’s exercise, but she dreaded meeting anyone from the Park, and took refuge instead in her room. In consequence, her head-ache grew so much worse towards the evening that she refused all dinner, and went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her arrival at Mansfield.

The next morning brought no further news, and her headache easing, Mary prepared herself to fulfil her promise, and pay a visit to the ladies of the Park. It was a miserable little party. Lady Bertram was a wretched, stupefied creature, and Julia was scarcely less an object of pity, her eyes red, and the stains of tears covering her cheeks. Maria Bertram was by far the most animated of the three, but hers was the animation of an agitated and anxious mind. Fear and expectation seemed to oppress her in equal degrees, and she was unable to keep her seat, picking up first one book and then another, before abandoning both to pace impatiently up and down the room. There was no sign of Fanny, and when Mary made a brief enquiry she was told merely that Miss Price was indisposed, and Mrs Norris was attending to her.

Mary sat for some minutes more in silence, impatient to be gone, but constrained by the forms of general civility, until the appearance of Baddeley with a tray of chocolate, which, by rousing Lady Bertram to the necessity of presiding, gave her the opportunity to speak privately to Julia.

‘I hope you will soon receive more encouraging news from Cumberland,’ she said, regretting she could think of nothing more to the purpose, but relieved to see the girl’s face lighten for a moment at her words.

‘It is very good of you to come. I have some satisfaction in knowing that Edmund will soon be at my father’s side— it will be such a relief to us all! As it is, we do not seem to know what to do with ourselves. My aunt has been scolding me all morning about the needlework for Fanny’s wedding, but I can hardly see to sew.’

At this, her eyes filled with tears once more, and she turned her face away and began to weep silently. Mary took her hand in her own, and offered her assistance, but it was not without a wondering reflection that she might find herself helping to adorn wedding-clothes for the very woman who was to marry the man she herself loved.

They drank their chocolate in heavy silence, until the stillness of the room was suddenly broken by the sound of violent screams from another part of the house. In a residence of such elegance, tranquillity, and propriety, such a disturbance would have been unusual at any time, but doubly shocking in a house silenced by sorrow. Mary was on her feet in an instant, and going quickly to the door she flung it open, and went to the foot of the staircase. There was no mistake; the noise was issuing from one of the rooms above, and the briefest of glances at the footmen was enough to confirm that this was not the first burst of feeling from that quarter they had witnessed that day. Miss Price was giving vent to tumults of passionate hysterics, and although Mary could not distinguish the words, it was clear that Mrs Norris was doing her utmost to comfort and quiet her. Mary was surprised, and not a little ashamed, wondering for a moment whether she had misjudged Fanny, and formed an unjust estimate of her fondness for her uncle. She felt the indelicacy of listening unseen to such a private grief, and turned back towards the drawing-room, where Maria was standing at the open door. Mary felt her face glow, as if she had been caught in the act of spying, but when she saw the expression of the young woman’s face she quickly forgot her own embarrassment. She doubted if Maria was even aware of her presence; she was wrapped in her own meditations, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes unnaturally bright.

‘Are you quite well, Miss Bertram?’ Mary asked gently.

Maria roused herself with some difficulty from her reverie. ‘Perfectly well, thank you, Miss Crawford,’ she said coolly. ‘As far as one can be, in such a situation.’

Mary returned to the drawing-room to take her leave of the other ladies, and she was half way across the park before recollecting that she had not asked Julia what she had wished to discuss with her at Compton: every other consideration had been swept away by the news from Cumberland. There was nothing to be done now but to return to the parsonage, and endeavour to find an opportunity to speak to Julia the following day. The rain began to fall once more, and she quickened her pace, noticing, however, that there seemed to be a group of workmen with mattocks gathered around a man on horseback, some distance away. The light was uncertain, but she thought she could discern the figure of her brother, and as she was drying herself in the vestibule, he came in behind her, dripping with wet.

‘I have just been giving the men instructions to commence the felling of the avenue, and the digging of the channel for the new cascade,’ he said, as he shook out his coat. ‘How do they go on at the Park?’

Mary sighed, and related the events of the afternoon, too preoccupied, perhaps, with her wet shoes to notice the look in his eye as she described what she had heard on the stairs. ‘I had not expected her to be so affected,’ she concluded.

‘I suppose it rather depends what exactly she is affected
by
,’ observed Henry, deep in his own thoughts.

At that moment Mrs Grant appeared, armed with dry clothes, and the promise of hot tea and a good fire.

‘I hear there is still no news of Sir Thomas,’ she said.‘Poor man! To be cut off at his time of life, when Lady Bertram depends on him so completely! But then again, I have no doubt Mrs Norris will be more than ready to step forward, and supply his place. She never misses an opportunity to interfere, even where she is not wanted. Did you see her at the ball? Taking it on herself to make up the card-tables, as if
she
were the hostess, and plaguing the life out of the chaperons because she wanted them moved to another part of the room. But at least we will not have to endure all
that
again in a hurry. There will be no more balls at Sotherton for the present.’

Henry looked up from where he was sitting removing his boots. ‘What is this? No more balls at Sotherton? Do not ask me to believe that Mr Rushworth has all of a sudden lost his taste for gaudy display, or acquired a preference for the modest and discreet.’

‘No, indeed, Henry,’ said Mrs Grant, with a look that was only half reproving. ‘But I heard this morning that he has left the neighbourhood. I am told that when he returned to Sotherton last night, there was a letter awaiting him from his father requesting his presence in Bath, and his father’s requests are not, apparently, of the kind to be trifled with. They say he will not be back before the winter. Did you not hear about it at the Park, Mary? Mr Rushworth called there this morning, on his way to the turnpike road—or so Mrs Baddeley told me. The ladies must have heard the news by now.’

‘I am certain they have,’ thought Mary, ‘and I do not doubt that it was
this
news, unexpected and unwelcome as it must have been, that was the real cause of Miss Price’s hysteria, rather than any excessive solicitude for her uncle’s health.’ A glance at her brother proved that he was of much the same mind, but Henry refused to meet her gaze, and a moment later he was on his feet, and hurrying away to dress for dinner.

CHAPTER IX

The weather worsening the next day, Mary was forced to give up all notion of a walk to the Park, and resigned herself to the probability of twenty-four hours within doors, with only her brother and the Grants for company. In the latter, however, she was mistaken. They were just beginning breakfast when a letter arrived for Henry; a letter of the most pressing business, as they soon discovered.

‘It is from Sir Robert Ferrars,’ he said, as he turned the pages. ‘You remember, Mary? I had the laying out of his pleasure-grounds at Netherfield last year, after he acquired the estate from Charles Bingley. A small job, hardly worth the trouble, but one that obtained for me some invaluable new connections. Indeed, I still have hopes of a commission at Bingley’s new property on the strength of his recommendation. However,’ he continued, his brow contracting, ‘it seems that an officious gardener has been interfering with the drains, with the result that most of the gravel walks are now under half a foot of water. Ferrars is reluctant to entrust the repair work to anyone but me— as well he should be, in the circumstances.’ He folded the letter and put it carefully in his pocket-book. ‘He writes to request my presence without delay. I will pen a note to Bertram to inform him, if you would be so good as to send one of the men to the Park? The affair requires my immediate departure, and if the weather is at all the same in Hertford-shire as it is here, I dare not imagine the dirt and disorder I will find on my arrival. It will be a miracle if my magnificent statues are not up to their knees in mud.’