Murder at Mansfield Park

Chapter 2

After breakfast the following morning Henry proposed that Mary accompany him on a survey of the park. The enthusiasm produced by their walk of the previous evening was excited still more by the loveliness of the day; it was really April; but it was May in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute. Everything looked beautiful under the influence of such a sky, even a bowling-green and a formal parterre laid out with too much regularity for his improver’s eye.

"Well my dear Mary," said Henry, drawing her arm within his, as they walked along the sweep, "how do you like Mansfield?"

"Very well — very much. Our sister is all kindness, and I am sure our three months here will be marked by many such evenings at the Park."

"And Mr Bertram?" he asked.

Mary shook her head with a smile. "I fear our sister will be disappointed if she persists in her expectations of him, even supposing him capable of attaching himself to a woman of no fortune, and no connections. I concede that Mr Bertram has easy manners and excellent spirits, as well as a long list of intimate friends that he seems to add to on the strength of the most meagre acquaintance, but these are not sufficient qualities to attract me, notwithstanding the reversion of Mansfield Park, and the baronetcy he will one day assume."

Henry laughed. "You are far too old for your twenty years, my dear Mary. I will leave it to you to break the news to our poor sister! And the young ladies?"

Mary decided to keep her more perplexing observations to herself for the present, stating merely that Miss Bertram seemed to be a very pleasing young woman.

"Quite so, but I do not know what to make of Miss Julia. I do not understand her. Why did she draw back and look so grave at me? She hardly said a word."

Mary laughed. "Henry! Miss Julia is not out. No wonder you could not get her to speak. She should not be noticed for another six months at least — or until Miss Price marries."

"Oh, Mary, these outs and not outs are beyond me! But you have now introduced a subject in which I must confess the most profound interest.What think you, my dear Mary, of the said Miss Price? The sweet and amiable and modest Miss Price? Did you not see her last night? Writing that note for Lady Bertram? Attending with such ineffable gentleness and patience, her colour beautifully heightened as she leant over it, her hair arranged neatly, and one little curl falling forward as she wrote — "

"I am sure that Miss Price’s ringlets are quite as artfully contrived as her deportment," interrupted Mary with a laugh. "I can respect her for doing her hair well, but cannot feel a more tender sentiment. Nor, I am sure, can you. I know you are merely teasing."

"No, no, I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely made up. My plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me."

Mary shook her head with a smile. "My dear brother, I will not believe this of you. Even were she as perfectly faultless as she appears — even were she the angel Mrs Norris claims her to be — we are told that Miss Price is engaged. Her choice is made."

"All I can say to that is that if Miss Price has given Mr Norris her heart as well as her hand, then she will be safe from any attack from me. But Mary," he said, stopping short, and smiling in her face, "I know what a thinking brain you have, and I know full well that you saw exactly what I saw — you cannot dissemble with me. Miss Price does not care three straws for Mr Norris, nor he for her; that is your opinion. And I do not blame her — what woman would care for such an undersized, solemn, gloomy fellow! Did you not hear him discussing his wretched dog last night? I never heard so much fuss made over such a trifle, or so many long words expended over such a small puppy — if it was necessary to say anything at all on such a desperate dull subject. In his place I would simply have said "I have given the thing a basket in the stables", but clearly such plain and manly dealing is beyond the wit of our Mr Norris. What was it he said? "I at length determined on a method of proceeding which would obviate the risk of unnecessary expense." Honestly, Mary, what is one to do with such an insufferable fellow?"

Mary laughed and replied, "Perhaps he will improve upon acquaintance?"

"I rather doubt it," he said, with sarcastic dryness, "as I am sure his lovely Fanny is only too aware."

"Oh! Henry, how shall I manage you? But I know you are not serious."

"Forty thousand pounds is a serious enough matter, would you not say?"

It was lightly said, and lightly taken, and without attempting any farther remonstrance, Mary left Miss Price to her fate, and they continued their walk. Henry led the way; every vista was pointed out, every prospect noted, until an opening in the trees finally afforded them a view of the house. They stopped some minutes to look and admire, until they noticed Miss Price and Mr Norris on horseback, riding side by side, followed by the Mansfield coachman, making directly towards the spot where they stood. Mary turned to her brother with a smile. "It seems you will have an early opportunity to begin your wicked project. I shall observe how you succeed, though if I am to judge by her behaviour last evening, I do not think you should expect very much encouragement. If there is not hope in her disdain, there is hope in nothing else."

"I fear we interrupt you in the exercise of your profession, Crawford," said Mr Norris, as soon as he was within hearing. "I suspected we might encounter you on our ride; the weather is exactly suited for your purpose. Well, how do you go on? Have you been able to form an opinion?"

Henry protested that a survey such as he felt necessary to be done was not the work of a moment, but, if he would, Mr Norris could be of inestimable assistance to him in pointing out the various divisions of the park.

Before Mr Norris could answer, Miss Price ventured to say, "Edmund, I am sure my uncle’s steward would be happy to offer his services to Mr Crawford by way of a guide."

Mr Norris made no reply and continued, "Is there anything you particularly wish to see, Crawford?"

"Sir Thomas’s letter talked of an avenue. I should like to see that."

"Of course, you would not have been able to see it last night, for the drawing-room looks across the lawn. Yes, the avenue is exactly behind the house; it begins at a little distance, and descends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see something of it here — something of the more distant trees. It is oak entirely. But have a care, Crawford, you will lose my cousin Julia as a friend if you propose to have it down. She has a young girl’s romantic attachment to the avenue; she says it makes her think of Cowper."

""Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited,"" said Mary, with a smile. "The park is certainly beautiful at this time of year. The woods are some of the finest I have ever seen."

"Indeed," said Miss Price, looking at her with evident surprise. "I had not expected someone so used to the bustle and dirt and noise of London to feel the pleasures of spring so keenly. The animation of body and mind that one can derive from the beginnings and progress of vegetation, the increasing beauties of the earliest flowers — when all is freshness, fragrance, and verdure!"

There was a short silence, then Mr Norris returned to Henry. "It is some distance, I am afraid, from this spot to the avenue, and I fear Miss Crawford may have had walking enough for this morning."

"I am not tired, I assure you," said she. "Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like, and nothing pleases me more than accompanying Henry on his visits. I rarely have a gratification of the kind."

Mr Norris nodded gravely, and then continued to address Henry, "All the same, the park is large — full five miles around — and your survey of the grounds would be better taken on horseback."

"My dear Edmund," said Miss Price, "you forget that a man such as Mr Crawford can scarcely afford to keep three hunters of his own, as you do. But there must be some horse or other in my uncle’s stable that nobody else wants, that Mr Crawford could use while he is here?"

Henry made a low bow. "Miss Price is all consideration, but I can assure her that her generous concern is quite unnecessary. Dr Grant has offered me the loan of his road-horse, and as for Mary, well, she is no horsewoman, so the question does not arise."

"Would it interest you to learn to ride, Miss Crawford?" asked Mr Norris, speaking to her for the first time. His addressing her at all was so unexpected that Mary hardly knew what to say, and felt she must look rather foolish, but whatever her confusion, she was still able to observe that, although endeavouring to appear properly demure, Miss Price’s disapprobation was only too evident. Mary thought that Mr Norris must perceive it likewise, and presumed that no more would be said on the subject. What, then, was her increase of astonishment on hearing Mr Norris repeat his offer, adding that he had a quiet mare that would be perfectly fitted for a beginner. What, thought Mary, could he mean by it? Surely he could not be unaware of Miss Price’s views on the subject? But quickly recovering her spirits, she decided that if he saw fit to ignore Miss Price’s feelings, there was no reason for her to respect them, and she accepted the offer with enthusiasm, saying that it would indeed give her great pleasure to learn to ride.

The next morning saw the arrival of Mr Norris at the parsonage, attended by his groom. Henry, who had been waiting with Dr Grant’s horse, lingered only to see Mary lifted on hers before mounting his own and departing for a day’s ride about the estate.

With an active and fearless character, and no want of strength and courage, Mary seemed formed to be a horsewoman, and made her first essay around Dr Grant’s meadow with great credit. When they made their first stop she was rewarded with expressions more nearly approaching warmth than she had so far heard Mr Norris utter, but upon looking up, she became aware that Miss Price had walked down from the Park, and was watching the two of them intently, from her position at the gate. They had neither of them seen her approach, and Mary could not be sure how long she had been there. Mr Norris had just taken Mary’s hand in order to direct the management of her bridle, but as soon as he saw Miss Price, he released it, and coloured slightly, recollecting that he had promised to ride with Fanny that morning. He moved away from Mary at once and led her horse towards the gate. "My dear Fanny," he said, as she approached, "I would not have incommoded you for the world, but Miss Crawford has been making such excellent progress, that I did not notice the hour. But," he added in a conciliatory tone, "there is more than time enough, and my forgetfulness may even have promoted your comfort by preventing us from setting off half an hour sooner; clouds are now coming up, and I know that you dislike riding on a hot day."

"My dear Edmund," said Fanny, with downcast eyes, "it is true that my delicate complexion will not now suffer from the heat as it would otherwise have done. I was wondering that you should forget me, but you have now given exactly the explanation which I ventured to make for you. Miss Crawford," she said, turning her gaze upon Mary, "I am sure that you must think me rude and impatient, by walking to meet you in this way?"

But Mary could not be provoked. "On the contrary," she said, "I should rather make my own apologies for keeping you waiting. But I have nothing in the world to say for myself. Such dreadful selfishness must always be forgiven," she said with a smile, and an arch look at Miss Price, "because there is no hope of a cure."

And so saying, Mary sprang lightly down from the mare and after thanking Mr Norris for his time and attention, she walked hastily away, turning only to watch the two of them slowly ascend the rise, and disappear from her view.

Mary found her spirits unexpectedly unsettled, and carried on walking for some while, hardly knowing where she was heading, and engrossed in her own thoughts, until she suddenly became conscious of a line of ancient oak trees stretching to her right and left. She perceived at once that she must be in that very avenue of which she had heard so much, and was surprised to find that she had walked so far. She was on the point of turning back when her eye was caught by a figure seated under one of the trees, and a moment later she recognised the youngest Miss Bertram, intent on her sketch-book, inks, and pencils.

"Will I disturb Miss Julia if I join her for a few moments?" Mary asked as she approached the bench.

Julia looked up with a sad smile."In truth, Miss Crawford, I would welcome the interruption. I have been trying to capture the exact effect of the sunlight on the leaves, but it is, for the moment, eluding me."

Mary looked over the girl’s shoulder at the drawing, and was agreeably surprised at what she saw.There was a peculiar felicity in the mixture of the colours, even if the more disciplined guidance of a proper drawing-master seemed to have been wanting. Mary could not but wonder why Sir Thomas had not provided such tuition for his daughter; the expense would be nothing to a man in his position. But putting the thought aside for the moment, she resolved to speak to Henry when she returned to the parsonage; as far as she was able to judge, Miss Julia had a more than everyday talent, and her brother might perhaps be able to offer some assistance. The two of them sat companionably for some minutes more, looking at the view and talking of poetry. Their taste was strikingly similar — the same books, the same passages were loved by each, and Julia brought all her favourite authors forward, giving Thomson, Cowper, and Scott their due reverence by turns, and finding a rapturous delight in discovering such a coincidence of preference.

"And your sister?" Mary enquired, after a pause. "Does she share your enjoyment of reading?"

Julia smiled gravely. "Alas, no. Maria and I used to read together at one time, but her thoughts now are all of balls and gowns and head-dresses, and other such idle vanities. No," she said, with a faltering voice, and tears in her eyes, "now that my beloved William is at sea, there is no-one in whom I can confide."

She sighed, and was silent for a moment, gazing at the vista before them. "I had hoped to follow the course of his ship on the map in the school-room, but he could not be sure of his exact route. My father has promised that this picture I am drawing will be sent to William in Bahama, if I can perfect it."

Mary gently touched her arm, and observed, "I am sure the gift will be all the more precious to him, because it comes from your own hand."

"This was our favourite place," Julia continued, with more animation. "How many times have we sat together under these beloved trees! I always come here when I wish to think of him. We so loved to watch the progress of the seasons, and see the leaves change colour from the freshest green to the autumn glories of gold and red and brown."

"In that case I am sure you must spend many happy hours with your cousin," said Mary. "Only yesterday I heard Miss Price rhapsodising about the beauties of spring."

In spite of herself, Julia could not help half a smile. "That does not surprise me — Fanny is much given to "rhapsodising" of late. She believes it shews her to have elegant taste and — what was her phrase? — "sublimity of soul". And such romantic sensibilities are, of course, exceedingly fashionable just at present."

It was Mary’s turn to smile at this, and an unexpected gust of wind then nearly shaking the sketch-book from Julia’s hands, the two of them jumped up and began to walk back towards the house. By the time they reached the terrace something like friendship had already been established between them, notwithstanding their differences in age and situation. They parted with affectionate words, and Mary returned at last to the parsonage.

Julia said nothing to her family of her encounter in the avenue, and spent so long in adding new touches to her drawing that her mother was already ringing the bell for dinner when she joined the other ladies of the family.

Mrs Norris began scolding at once."That is a very foolish trick, Julia, to be idling away all the day in the garden, when there is so much needlework to be done. If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor-basket here. There is all this new calico that your mother bought last week, not touched yet."

Julia was taking the work very quietly, when her aunt suddenly exclaimed once more. "Oh! For shame, Julia! How can you shew yourself in the drawing-room in such a disgraceful state! — Look at you, quite covered with paint, and to be sure you have ruined this entire roll of cloth with your thoughtlessness. Do you have no thought for the waste of money? Be off with you now, and wash yourself, before your father sees you and mistakes you for one of the lesser servants."

There was indeed a very small speck of ink, quite dry, on Julia’s hand, but she knew better than to contradict her aunt, however unjust her accusations, and returned to her room to remedy it, her heart swelling with repressed injury at being so publicly mortified for so little cause. When she reappeared downstairs she was just in time to hear the name of her new friend. Maria had not long returned from her daily ride with the old coachman, and related, with much liveliness, that he had never seen a young lady sit a horse better than Miss Crawford, when first put on.

"I was sure she would ride well," Maria continued, "she has the make for it. Her figure is so neat and light."

"I am sure you are a fair judge, Maria," said Lady Bertram, "since you ride so well yourself. I only wish you could persuade Julia to learn. It is such a nice accomplishment for a young lady."

Mrs Norris, who was still in a decidedly ill temper, seemed to find this inoffensive remark particularly provoking, and after muttering something about "the nonsense and folly of people’s stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves", she observed in a louder tone, "I am sure Miss Crawford’s enjoyment of riding has much to do with the fact that she is contriving to learn at no expense to herself. Or perhaps it is Edmund’s attendance and instructions that make her so unwilling to dismount. Indeed, I cannot see why Edmund should always have to prove his good-nature by everyone, however insignificant they are. What is Miss Crawford to us?"

"I admit," said Fanny, after a little consideration, "that I am a little surprised that Edmund can spend so many hours with Miss Crawford, and not see more of the sort of fault which I observe every time I am with her. She has such a loud opinion of her own cleverness, and such an ill-bred insistence on commanding everyone’s attention, whenever she is in company. And her manners, without being exactly coarse, can hardly be called refined. But needless to say I have scrupled to point out my observations to Edmund, lest it should appear like ill-nature."

"Quite so," agreed Mrs Norris. "Miss Crawford lacks delicacy, and has neither refinement nor elegance. Ease, but not elegance. No elegance at all. Indeed, she is quite the vainest, most affected, husband-hunting butterfly I have ever had the misfortune to encounter."

The gentlemen soon joined them, and Mr Norris took a seat by Miss Price, and being unaware of the conversation that had passed, ventured to ask her whether she wished him to ride with her again the next day.

"No, not if you have other plans," was her sweetly unselfish answer.

"I do not have plans for myself," said he, "but I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have the chance to ride for a longer time. I am sure she would enjoy the circuit to Mansfield-common. But I am, of course, unwilling to check a pleasure of yours," he said quickly, perhaps aware of the dead silence now reigning in the room, and his mother’s black looks. "Indeed," he said, with sudden inspiration, turning to his cousins,"why should not more of us go? Why should we not make a little party?"

All the young people were soon wild for the scheme, and even Fanny, once properly pressed and persuaded, eventually assented. Mrs Norris, on the other hand, was still trying to make up her mind as to whether there was any necessity that Miss Crawford should be of the party at all, but all her hints to her son producing nothing, she was forced to content herself with merely recommending that it should be Mr Bertram, rather than Mr Norris, who should walk down to the parsonage in the morning to convey the invitation. Edmund looked his displeasure, but did nothing to oppose her, and, as usual, she carried the point.

The ride to Mansfield-common took place two days later, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield-common disposed them all for going some where else the day after, and four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only serving to supply inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure, and to make every shady lane the more attractive. On the fifth day their destination was Stoke-hill, one of the beauties of the neighbourhood.Their road was through a pleasant country; and Mary was very happy in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. When they got to the top of the hill, where the road narrowed and just admitted two, she found herself riding next to Miss Price. The two of them continued silent, till suddenly, stopping a moment to look at the view, and observing that Mr Norris had dismounted to assist an old woman travelling homewards with a heavy basket, Miss Price turned to her with a smile. "Mr Norris is such a thoughtful and considerate gentleman! Always so concerned to appear civil to those of inferior rank, fortune, and expectations."

Seeing that her companion was most interested to observe the effect of such a remark, Mary contented herself with a smile. Miss Price, however, seemed determined to continue their conversation, and after making a number of disdainful enquiries as to the cost of Mary’s gown, and the make of her shoes, she continued gaily, "You will think me most impertinent to question you in this way, Miss Crawford, but living in this rustic seclusion, I so rarely have the opportunity of making new acquaintance, especially with young women who are accustomed to the manners and amusements of London — or at least such entertainments as the public assemblies can offer."

At this she gave Mary a look, which meant, "A public ball is quite good enough for you." Mary smiled. "In my experience, private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. Most public balls suffer from two insurmountable disadvantages — a want of chairs, and a scarcity of men, and as often as not, a still greater scarcity of any that are good for much."

"But that is exactly my own feeling on the subject! The company one meets at private balls is always so much more agreeable."

"As to that," replied Mary, "I confess I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal."

She hazarded a side glance at her companion at this, wondering whether she was as accustomed to being treated with contempt, as she was to dispensing it, but Miss Price seemed serenely unaware that such a remark could possibly refer to her.

"Oh! My dear Miss Crawford," she said, "with so much to unite us, would it not be delightful to become better acquainted?"

To be better acquainted, Mary soon found, was to be her lot, whatever her own views on the matter. This was the origin of the second intimacy Mary was to enjoy at Mansfield, one that had little reality in the feelings of either party, and appeared to result principally from Miss Price’s desire to communicate her own far superior claims on Edmund, and teach Mary to avoid him.

The weather remained fine, and Mary’s rides continued. The season, the scene, the air, were all delightful, and as the days passed Mr Norris began to be agreeable to her. It was without any change in his manner — he remained as quiet and reserved as ever — but she found nonetheless that she liked to have him near her. Had she thought about it more, she might have concluded that the anxiety and confusion she had endured since her uncle’s death had made her particularly susceptible to the charms of placidity and steadiness; but for reasons best known to herself, Mary did not think very much about it. She had by no means forgotten Miss Price’s insinuations, and could not fail to notice Mrs Norris’s rather more pointed remarks; and in the privacy of the parsonage her brother continued to ridicule Edmund as both stuffy and conceited. He began a small collection of his more pompous remarks, which he noted down in the back of his pocket-book, and performed for his sisters with high glee, mimicking his victim’s rather prosing manner to absolute perfection. Perhaps Mary should have apprehended something of her own feelings from the growing disquiet she felt at this continued raillery, but unwelcome as it was, she chose rather to censure Henry’s lack of manners, than her own lack of prudence.

Mary rode every morning, and in the afternoons she sauntered about with Julia Bertram in the Mansfield woods, or — rather more reluctantly — walked with Miss Price in Mrs Grant’s garden.

"Every time I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with how much has been made of such unpromising scrubby dirt," said Miss Price, as they were thus sitting together one day. "Three years ago, this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything."

"It may seem partial in me to praise," replied Mary, looking around her, "but I must admire the taste my sister has shewn in all this. Even Henry approves of it, and his good opinion is not so easily won in matters horticultural."

"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" answered Miss Price, who did not appear to have heard her. "The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!"

But as Miss Price happened to have her eyes fixed at that moment on a particularly fine example of an elm, Mary merely smiled and said nothing.

A few moments later, Miss Price began again in a rather different strain, "I cannot imagine what it is to pass March and April in London. How different a thing sunshine must be in a town! I imagine that in — Bedford-square was it not, my dear Miss Crawford? — the sun’s power is only a glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. And old gentlemen can be so particular about such things. I always pity the housekeeper in such circumstances. You, of course, know the trials of housekeeping only too well."

Miss Price having exhausted for the present even her considerable talent for the underhand and the insulting, began to pull at some of the trimming on her dress. "This cheap fringe will not do at all. I really must ask Lady Bertram to remonstrate with that slovenly dressmaker. I am hardly fit to appear in decent company, but thankfully there is no-one of consequence here to see me."

Mary watched her for a moment, reflecting that she did not have such an ornament on even her finest gown, before commenting thoughtfully, "I am conscious of being even more attracted to a country residence than I expected."

"Indeed?" said Miss Price loudly, with a look of meaning. "What had you in mind? Allow me to guess. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family connections — continual engagements among them — commanding the first society in the neighbourhood, and turning from the cheerful round of such amusements to nothing worse than a tête-à-tête with the person one feels most agreeable in the world? I can see that such a picture would have much in it to attract you, Miss Crawford."

"Perhaps it does." Mary added to herself, leaving her seat, "Perhaps I could even envy you with such a home as that."

Miss Price sat silent, once again absorbed in the vexations of her gown, and pulling at it until it was quite spoilt. Mary relapsed into thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up she saw Edmund walking towards them in the company of Mrs Grant. The very consciousness of having been thinking of him as "Edmund’ — as Miss Price alone was justified in thinking of him — caused her to colour and look away, a movement which was not lost on the sharp eyes of Miss Price.

"Well, Miss Crawford," she said archly, "shall I disappoint them of half their lecture upon my sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can begin?"

Edmund met them with particular awkwardness. It was the first time of his seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing deprecated by his mother almost every day. He could hardly understand it; there was such a difference in their tempers, their dispositions, and their tastes, there never were two people more dissimilar. But even if he saw the force of such a contrast, he was not yet equal to discuss it with himself, and seeing them together now, he confined himself to an insipid and common-place observation about the wisdom of judging the weather by the calendar, which would have merited an entry in Henry’s pocket-book, if he had but heard it.

As the four of them returned to the parsonage house, Edmund recollected the purpose of his errand; he had walked down on purpose to convey Sir Thomas’s invitation to the Grants and the Crawfords to dine at the Park. It was with strong expressions of regret that Mrs Grant declared herself to be prevented by a prior engagement, and Miss Price turned at once to Mary, saying how much she would have enjoyed the pleasure of her company, "but without Dr and Mrs Grant, she did not suppose it would be in their power to accept," all the while looking at Edmund for his support. But Mr Norris assured them that his uncle would be delighted to receive Mr and Miss Crawford, with or without the Grants, and in her brother’s absence Mary accepted with the greatest alacrity.

"I am very glad. It will be delightful," said Miss Price, trying for greater warmth of manner, as they took their leave. Edmund took her arm and they walked home together; and except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, it was a silent walk — for having finished that subject, Edmund grew thoughtful and indisposed towards any other. Miss Price narrowly observed him throughout, but she said nothing.