Murder at Mansfield Park

by Lynn Shepherd

  The next scene brought Mr Yates to the stage for the first time. He had been severely displeased to find that his blue cloak was still unfinished, a failure he did not scruple to attribute to Mrs Norris’s insistence on completing it without sending out for another roll of satin. It took some moments for him to rant himself back into a good humour, but by the point of Mary’s entrance he was in full voice.

  ‘The name of Wildenhaim will die with me!’ he stormed. ‘Oh! Why was not my Amelia a boy?

  ’ Mr Yates’s voice was so thunderous, his manner so ridiculous, that it was as much as Mary could do to avoid laughing aloud. In consequence, she did the comedy of the scene some credit, and they proceeded with great éclat, especially after the entrance of Henry, whose appearance in a cocked hat he had discovered in the Mansfield schoolroom was such a piece of true comic acting as Mary would not have lost upon any account.

  They were obliged to stop half way through the act, where Mr Norris’s character would have entered, and Mary returned to her seat to watch Rushworth and Yates roar through the next scene. Frederick drew his sword upon his unknown father, and the Baron imprisoned his unknown son, both hallooing at one another from a distance of less than a yard. The act closed with the solemn pronouncement from Mr Yates that ‘Vice is never half so dangerous, as when it assumes the garb of morality’, and the fervent applause of the spectators. Both audience and actors then repaired to the dining-parlour, where a collation had been prepared, and the company began upon the cold meat and cake with equal enthusiasm.

  Everyone was too much engaged in compliment and criticism to be struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, until the door of the room was thrown open, and Maria appearing at it, with a look of meaning at her cousin and Mr Rushworth, announced in trembling tones, ‘Edmund has come! He is in the hall at this moment!’

  Not a word was spoken for half a minute, but there was no time for further consternation, for Edmund was following his cousin almost instantaneously into the dining-room, intent on losing no time in giving them a full report of his uncle’s health, and the particulars of their journey.

  ‘And what of you all?’ he asked at the end of it. ‘How does the play go on?’

  ‘We have chosen Lovers’Vows,’ replied Mr Yates, his voice still rather hoarse from his exertions. ‘And I take Baron Wildenhaim.’

  ‘I see,’ said Edmund, then, ‘I am afraid I do not know the play,’ unaware of the relief this declaration afforded to at least one person present.

  ‘You are to be Anhalt, Edmund,’ said Tom quickly. ‘We have cast all the other men. Indeed, we were in the midst of a rehearsal when you arrived.’

  ‘Pray do not leave off on my account, Tom,’said Edmund with a smile. ‘I will join the audience and spur you on.’

  ‘Would it not be better,’ began Miss Price, with a look at Mr Rushworth, ‘if Anhalt were to read through his scene with Amelia here, in the dining-parlour? The rest might then take the opportunity to have another rehearsal of the first act.’

  No-one making any objection, and some amongst them being anxious to be gone, the greater part of the party returned to the theatre. Mr Norris was evidently surprised to see that Miss Price made one of them, while Mary made no movement to leave the room.

  ‘He must have thought they were to act together,’ thought Mary with a sigh, as she rose and called Julia back again. ‘Miss Julia! Forgive me, but I am sure Mr Norris would welcome your assistance as prompter. As, indeed, would I.’

  Edmund took up a copy of the play, and directed by Julia, found the scene in question.

  ‘I am at your service,’ he said, looking from one to the other, ‘but clearly I will only be able to read the part.’

  They began, and Mary had never felt her opening lines so apt as she did now: ‘I feel very low-spirited—some thing must be the matter.

  ’ Mr Norris stumbled over his first speeches, but it was soon apparent that he had the happiest knack of adapting his posture and voice to whatever was to be expressed, and whether it were dignity or tenderness, he could do it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic, and caught between their theatrical and their real parts, between their present embarrassment and their past misunderstanding, they both gave such nature and feeling to the parts they were playing that Julia could not always pay attention to the book. In some confusion Mary watched as Edmund finally began upon the long-dreaded words, ‘When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a happy life. ’ He was in the middle of the speech before he suspected its purport, and his reading gradually slackened, until at last, the eyes which had been fixed so studiously on the book were raised towards Mary. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush.

  ‘This picture is pleasing,’ continued Edmund, rising from his chair,‘but I must beg you not to forget that there is another on the same subject. When convenience, and fair appearance, joined to folly and ill-humour, forge the fetters of matrimony—’

  He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command.

  ‘I must apologise,’ he said after a pause, turning back to the young ladies, both of whom had risen from their seats in surprise and concern. ‘The fatigue of so long a journey is proving to be no trifling evil. I beg your indulgence and your pity. I deserve the latter, at least,’ he said, his voice sinking a little, ‘more than you can ever surmise.’

  He was gone as he spoke, and Mary followed him almost as quickly, very much afraid lest he should choose this moment to look in upon the rehearsals taking place in the billiard-room. She proved, however, to be too late. As she reached the theatre she found Edmund at the door, his hand still on the lock, his eyes fixed on the performers before him. Mr Rushworth’s indefatigable Frederick was supporting Agatha in his arms, as she fainted most charmingly against his breast.

  ‘I will, now, never leave you more,’ he stormed. ‘Look how tall and strong I am grown. These arms can now afford you support. They can, and shall, procure you subsistence.’

  Rushworth was so totally unconscious of any thing beyond the stage that he did not notice the uneasy movements of many of the audience, and it was not until Tom gave a decided and uneasy ‘hem’ that he was at all aware of Edmund’s presence, at which he immediately gave perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals.

  ‘Ah—Norris!—my dear Norris!—’ he cried, ‘you find us at a most interesting moment! Miss Price’s character has just been recounting her sad tale to her son. It was most affecting; we are fortunate indeed to have such an excellent Agatha, there is some thing so maternal in her manner, so completely maternal in her voice and countenance.’

  Mr Rushworth continued in the same eager tone, unmindful of Mr Norris’s expression as he turned to look at Miss Price. She, however, returned his gaze with a bold eye; even now, Mr Rushworth retained her hand, and the very circumstance which had occasioned their present embarrassment, was to her the sweetest support. Ever since the ball her manner to Edmund had been careless and cold, and she wanted only the certainty of a more eligible offer to break off an engagement that had now become a source of regret and disappointment, however public the rupture must prove to be.

  The eyes of everyone present were still fixed on Miss Price, and only Mary was so placed as to see the expression of shock and alarm on Mrs Norris’s face. It was apparent at once that she was under the influence of a tumult of new and very unwelcome ideas. She looked almost aghast, but it was not the arrival of her son that was the cause of it; for many weeks now she had considered Mary to be the principal threat to a union that she had looked forward to for so long, and which was even now on the point of accomplishment. But in devoting so much energy to hindering Mary, and disparaging her, she had entirely overlooked another, and far more insidious development. There was now no room for error. The conviction that had rushed over her mind, and dr
iven the colour from her cheeks, could no longer be denied: the true daemon of the piece was not the upstart, under-bred Mary, but the smooth and plausible Mr Rushworth, a man she had been flattering and encouraging all the while, thinking him to be the admirer of Maria, and a good enough match for her and her seven thousand pounds. But now Mrs Norris’s eyes were opened, and her fury and indignation were only too evident.

  ‘If I must say what I think,’ she said, in a cold, determined manner, ‘it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. I think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing.’

  Edmund replied with an increase of gravity which was not lost on anyone present, ‘I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same, madam. There will be no more rehearsals.’

  There was indeed no question of resuming. Mr Rushworth clearly considered it as only a temporary interruption, a disaster for the day, and even suggested the possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea. But to Mary, the conclusion of the play was a certainty; the total cessation of the scheme was inevitably at hand, and the tender scene between herself and Mr Norris would go no further forward.

  CHAPTER VII

  The price to be paid for the doubtful pleasure of private theatricals was in Mary’s thoughts the whole of the following day, and an evening of backgammon with Dr Grant was felicity to it. It was the first day for many, many days, in which the households had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since April began, without bringing them all together in some way or other. At the Park the evening passed with external serenity, though almost every mind was ruffled, and the music which Lady Bertram called for from Julia helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria kept to her room, complaining of a cold, while Fanny sat quietly with her needle, a smile of secret delight now and again playing about her lips. In the more retired seclusion of the White House, Mrs Norris gave way to a bitter invective against Rushworth, inciting her son to exert himself, it being within his power to remedy all these evils, if he would but act like a man, with fortitude and resolution. Edmund’s private feelings in the face of such a tirade may only be guessed at.

  ‘I was sorry to hear that the play is done with,’ said Mrs Grant, when Henry and Mary joined her and Dr Grant in the breakfast-room the next morning. ‘The other young people must be very much disappointed.’

  ‘I fancy Yates is the most afflicted,’ said Henry with a smile. ‘He is gone back to Bath, but, he said, if there was any prospect of a renewal of Lovers’ Vows, he should break through every other claim. “From Bath, London, York, Heath Row—wherever I may be,” he announced, “I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour’s notice.”’ ‘I confess I did wonder at the Heath Row,’ he continued, helping himself to more chocolate. ‘Indeed I was not even sure at the time where he meant. It appears it is a small village some where to the west of London.Yates is thinking of buying a place there, but by all accounts the area is damp, lowlying and disposed to fog, and I therefore gave it as my opinion that it was unlikely much would ever be made of it.’

  ‘Still,’ said Mrs Grant, returning to the subject of the lost theatricals,‘there will be little rubs and disappointments every where,but then, if one plan of happiness fails,human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better; we find comfort some where.’

  Mrs Grant’s confidence proved to be well founded, for the weather clearing, the excursion to Compton was reinstated, and the next time they all met together at the Park an early day was named, and agreed to. Lady Bertram having a slight cold, she was persuaded to stay at home by her sister. At any other time Mrs Norris would have very thoroughly relished the means this afforded her of directing the arrangement of the whole scheme; now, all her considerable efforts would be needed to keep Mr Rushworth away from Fanny, while throwing him, if she could, in the way of Maria.

  ‘You must excuse Lady Bertram on this occasion, Mr Rushworth,’ she said coolly, ‘and accept of the girls and myself without her.’

  Julia began to protest, saying she had just as rather not go at all, but her aunt at once addressed her in a whisper both angry and audible: ‘What a piece of work here is about nothing—I am quite ashamed of you, Julia, to make such a difficulty when the whole party has been arranged for your pleasure and convenience—accept the invitation with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter.’

  ‘Pray do not urge her, madam,’ said Edmund. ‘I am sure my cousin will find herself quite equal to the visit, when the day comes.’

  Mrs Norris said no more, contenting herself with an angry look before turning to the subject of transport. ‘Your barouche will hold four perfectly well, Mr Rushworth, independent of the box, on which one might go with you. And as for the young gentlemen, why, they can go on horseback.’

  ‘But why is it necessary,’ said Edmund, ‘that Rushworth’s carriage, or his only should be employed?’

  ‘What!’ cried Maria quickly. ‘Go box’d up five in a postchaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear cousin, that will not quite do.’ After the ruin of Lovers’Vows, and the wreck of her own hopes of Rushworth, Maria had confined herself to the house, seeing nobody, but for some days past she had begun to affect a brittle and reckless gaiety that seemed precisely calculated to convey an indifference Mary could not believe she really felt. She appeared to have decided that even if the loss of James Rushworth had destroyed her happiness, neither he nor her cousin should know that they had done it. She would not allow them to think of her as pining in a self-imposed solitude for them.

  ‘There is no hardship, I suppose,’ continued Edmund, ‘in going on the barouche box?’

  ‘Hardship!’ replied Maria; ‘Oh! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one’s view of the country from the barouche box.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Fanny, with a look at Edmund. ‘I have no doubt that Miss Crawford will choose that seat. She has a great desire to see Compton.’

  ‘Miss Crawford has not often an opportunity to see her brother’s work,’ was Edmund’s only reply, and the subject was dropped.

  Friday was fine, and soon after breakfast Mr Rushworth arrived, driving the barouche. Miss Price was clearly meditating how best, and with the most appearance of obliging the others, to secure the barouche box, while Miss Bertram was equally clearly intent on thwarting her, an aim in which she was warmly seconded by her aunt. ‘You were saying lately, Maria,’ Mrs Norris said quickly, ‘that you wished you could drive; I think this will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.’

  Happy Maria! Unhappy Fanny! The latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification; the former was assisted in ascending the box by Edmund, who saw it all, but said nothing.

  When they approached Compton, Mr Rushworth appropriated the role of guide, and regaled them with a succession of observations on the property on each side of the road.

  ‘Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Bertram, our difficulties are over. Mr Smith had it made when he first purchased the estate. His original intention was to keep the old road as it was, since it passed by some very pretty cottages—delightfully picturesque objects, all ruined and overgrown with ivy—but the wretched tenants made so many difficulties about living in them that he was forced to undertake renovations, with the result that the houses now look quite ordinary and dull. Happily he lighted on the idea of moving the road entirely, so one is no longer troubled by the sight of villagers as one approaches the house. Miss Bertram will be able to see the church tower now, through the trees. Some reckon it tolerably handsome, but Smith tells me the annoyance of the bells is terrible, and I myself can testify to the clergyman’s wife being a remarkably ill-looking woman. Ah,’ he said as the barouche rounded a bend, ‘we are about to gain our first sight of the house. Here lies the prospect, Miss Julia,’ he said, turning back to her where she sat sil
ent and pale at the back of the barouche, ‘and I am sure you will agree that the approach now, is one of the finest things you ever saw: you will see the rear facade in the most surprising manner. People tell me it is the admiration of all the country, but I assure you it was a mere nothing before—well—before your brother took it in hand, Miss Crawford,’ he concluded, with a momentary embarrassment, recollecting that the architect of this marvellously improved prospect was not, after all, his friend Mr Smith, but the man riding silently alongside him. Henry proved, moreover, to be close at his elbow at that moment, making so instantaneous a change of expression and tone necessary, as Mary, in spite of every thing, could hardly help laughing at.

  ‘Capital, my dear Crawford! I was just saying to the ladies, you have out-Repton’d Repton! We are all anticipating the view of the house with the keenest enthusiasm.’

  They turned in at the lodge and found themselves at the bottom of a low eminence overspread with trees. A little way farther the wood suddenly ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by the house. It was a handsome brick building, backed by gently rising hills, and in front, a stream of some natural importance had been swelled into a series of small lakes, by Henry’s skill and ingenuity. The barouche was stopped for a few minutes, and the three gentlemen rode up to join them. Mary’s heart swelled with pride and pleasure, to see her brother’s genius and taste realised in the beauties of a landscape such as this. Even Mrs Norris was forced into admiration, though evidently against her will. ‘I wish my dear husband could have seen this,’ said she. ‘It is quite like some thing we had planned at the White House.’

  Henry was excessively pleased. If Mrs Norris could feel as much as this, the inference of what the young ladies must feel was indeed gratifying. He glanced at Miss Price, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her, but although she remained resolutely silent, his spirits were in as happy a state as professional pride could furnish when they drove up the last stretch of road to the spacious stone steps before the principal entrance.