Murder at Mansfield Park

Chapter 6

The house was very soon afterwards deprived of its master, and the day of Sir Thomas’s departure followed quickly upon the night of the ball. Only the necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light had resigned Sir Thomas to the painful effort of quitting his family, but the young ladies, at least, were somewhat reconciled to the prospect of his absence by the arrival of Mr Rushworth, who, riding over to Mansfield on the day of Sir Thomas’s leave-taking to pay his respects, renewed his proposal for private theatricals. However, contrary to Miss Price’s more sanguine expectations, the business of finding a play that would suit every body proved to be no trifle. All the best plays were run over in vain, and Othello, Macbeth, The Rivals, The School for Scandal, and a long etcetera, were successively dismissed.

"This will never do," said Tom Bertram at last. "At this rate, my father will be returned before we have even begun. From this moment I make no difficulties. I will take any part you choose to give me."

At that moment, Mr Yates took up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on the table, and suddenly exclaimed, "Lovers’ Vows! Why not Lovers’ Vows?"

"My dear Yates," cried Tom, "it strikes me as if it would do exactly! Frederick and the Baron are capital parts for Rushworth and Yates, and here is the rhyming Butler for me — if nobody else wants it. And as for the rest, it is only Count Cassel and Anhalt. Even Edmund may attempt one of them without disgracing himself, when he returns."

The suggestion was highly acceptable to all; to storm through Baron Wildenhaim was the height of Mr Yates’s theatrical ambition, and he immediately offered his services for the part, allowing Mr Rushworth to claim that of Frederick with almost equal satisfaction. Three of the characters were now cast, and Maria began to be concerned to know her own fate. "But surely there are not women enough," said she. "Only Agatha and Amelia. Here is nothing for Miss Crawford."

But this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she would accept it. A short silence followed. Fanny and Maria each felt the best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the rest. But Mr Rushworth, who with seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the business. "I must entreat Miss Bertram," said he, "not to contemplate any character but that of Amelia. That, in my opinion, is by far the most difficult character in the whole piece. The last time I saw Lovers’ Vows the actress in the part gave quite the most deplorable performance (and in my opinion, the whole play was sadly wanting — if they had accepted my advice, they might have brought the thing round in a trice, but though I offered my services to the manager, the scoundrel had the insolence to turn me down). But as I was saying, a proper representation of Amelia demands considerable delicacy — the sort of delicacy we may confidently expect from Maria Bertram."

For a moment Miss Bertram wavered: his words were of a piece with his previous compliments; but that was before the ball, when he had danced with her only once, and with Fanny three times. Since then he had hardly spoken to her. Was he now seeking only to induce her to overlook these previous affronts? She distrusted him; he was, she now suspected, at treacherous play with her, but as she hesitated, her brother interposed once again with Miss Crawford’s better claim.

"No, no, no, Maria must not be Amelia," said Tom. "The part is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and sounds the part, and I am persuaded will do it admirably."

Maria looked narrowly at Fanny; the smile of triumph which she was trying to suppress afforded a yet stronger suspicion of there now being something of a private understanding between her and Rushworth, the man Maria had been thinking of as her own avowed admirer only a few days before. Maria knew her cousin, and knew that opposition would only expose her to public shame and humiliation. She had had enough.

"Oh! Do not be afraid of my wanting to act," she cried; "I am not to be Agatha, and as to Amelia — such a pert, upstart girl. Most suitable for someone such as — "

She stopped and reddened, and then walked hastily out of the room, leaving awkward feelings for more than one.

The concerns of the theater were suspended during dinner, but the spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Mr Rushworth, and Mr Yates seated themselves once again in committee, when an interruption was given by the entrance of the Grants and the Crawfords, who had come, late as it was, to drink tea with them. Mr Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell them the agreeable news.

"We have got a play," said he.

"I must congratulate you, sir," said Dr Grant. "And what have you decided upon?"

"It is to be Lovers’ Vows."

"Indeed," said Dr Grant, who had once attended a performance in London. "That is not the play I would have chosen for a private theatre."

"Now, Dr Grant, do not be disagreeable," said his wife. "Nobody loves a play better than you do. And are you to act, Miss Price?" she continued, taking a seat next to her by the fire."

"I am to play Agatha," replied Miss Price with happy complacency.

"And I take Frederick," said Mr Rushworth carelessly. "I was equally willing to have the Baron, but the others pressed me so hard, insisting that the whole play would be indescribably the weaker unless I should undertake it, that at the last I agreed to take it on, merely to be obliging."

"I see," replied Dr Grant, in a heavy tone. "In that case, I must tell you, sir, that I think it exceedingly improper, in the circumstances, for you to act with Miss Price."

"You must excuse me, sir, but I cannot agree," said Mr Rushworth peremptorily. "We shall, of course, shorten some of the speeches, and so forth, but otherwise I can see no objection on the grounds of propriety. The play has been staged in many respectable private theatres — indeed, I saw it put on at Pemberley only last year, though their cast was infinitely inferior to our own, even if I do say so myself."

"That may be," said Dr Grant heavily, "but my opinion remains the same. I think certain scenes in this play wholly unfit for private representation."

"Do not act anything improper, Fanny," said Lady Bertram, who had heard some part of their conversation from her position on the sopha. "Sir Thomas would not like it."

"I hope you will never have cause to reprove my conduct, Lady Bertram," said Fanny, modestly. "I am sure you never have before."

"Well, I have no such fears, sir, and no scruples worth the name," said Mr Rushworth, severely displeased with the clergyman’s interference. "If we are so very nice, we shall never act anything, and I could not wish for a finer début for my little theatre at Sotherton."

"I was just about to say the very same thing," said Mrs Norris, looking angrily at Dr Grant. "I do not know this particular play myself, but as Edmund is to act too, there can be no harm. I think I may answer for my own son, and I will venture to do the same for Sir Thomas. I only wish Mr Rushworth had known his own mind when the scene painter began, for there was the loss of half a day’s work on trees and clouds, when what we want now is cottages and alehouses."

"Pray excuse me, madam, but in this matter it is Miss Price who is to lead," replied Dr Grant, turning to Fanny. "You might simply say that, on examining the part of Agatha, you feel yourself unequal to it. That will be quite enough. The part will be made over to Miss Bertram or to Mary, and your delicacy honoured as it ought."

This picture of her own consequence had some effect, and for a moment Miss Price hesitated; but it was only for a moment. "Why, Dr Grant, that cannot be," she replied sweetly, with a glance across at Mary, "for Miss Crawford already has a part of her own. She is to be Amelia. Do you know the play, Miss Crawford?" she continued, rising and approaching Mary’s chair. "I would be very happy to lend you my copy. I am sure you will find it instructive; especially the third act, where you will find a scene which will interest you most particularly."

Mary had never seen Lovers’ Vows, but she knew enough of Miss Price to know that whatever her meaning, there could be no kindness intended to her in the remark. But Mr Rushworth having need, at that moment, of Miss Price’s advice on the subject of his dress, Mary was able to take up the book and retire to a seat next to Henry, who had likewise been perusing the play with no little curiosity.

"I am to be Count Cassel, I find," he said gloomily. "And, as such, to play the part of your suitor, my dear Mary. Knowing that we are to act together is the only piece of enjoyment I foresee in the entire business. This Count is a complete buffoon — nothing but empty-headed foolishness from beginning to end. Upon my word," he continued in an undertone, "we have made a pretty blunder in our casting of this confounded play! Here am I playing Count Cassel, a man who is “rich, and of great consequence”, two qualities to which I cannot, alas, lay any claim, whereas the whole part might have been written for Rushworth! This line here — “my elegant gun is inlaid with mother-of-pearl. You cannot find better work, or better taste” — and here — “The whole castle smells of his perfumery”. It is the man entire!"

Mary could not help laughing, and he continued, "My only remaining hope is that Count Cassel may succeed where Henry Crawford has failed."

"How so?"

"Why, by reclaiming the attention of Miss Price, who clearly admires the Count Cassels of the world more than the Henry Crawfords. But that being so," he said in a more serious tone, looking over towards the fireplace, "I fear for my fair disdain, for I suspect that Mr Rushworth resembles Count Cassel in more ways than one. Where is that speech in Act IV? Ah, here it is — “for a frivolous coxcomb, such as myself, to keep my word to a woman, would be deceit: ’tis not expected of me.”"

Mary did not know how to contradict him, and the two sat for some time in a thoughtful silence. It was some minutes more before Mary turned finally to the scene Miss Price had mentioned, and as she read it the colour flooded into her cheeks. She knew they had cast Edmund as Anhalt, but had known nothing of the part itself beyond the fact that the young man was a clergyman. That had seemed to promise few terrors, but she now comprehended that she would be required to act a scene with him in which the whole subject was love — a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love to be made by the lady. She read, and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and was thankful that Miss Price’s attention was still engrossed in the various refinements of Mr Rushworth’s attire. She could not yet face Fanny’s knowing looks, much less contemplate saying such words to Mr Norris before the rest of the company.

Everything was quickly in a regular train; theatre, actors, actresses, and dresses, were all getting forward, and the scene painter being still at work at Sotherton, a temporary theatre was quickly fitted out in the billiard-room at Mansfield. As the days passed Mary reasoned herself into a greater degree of composure, and could even derive some amusement from the actions of the others, both on and off the stage. Henry had proved to be considerably the best actor of them all, despite the trifling nature of his part, and his consequent frustration was severely aggravated by being constrained to witness the repeated, and soon unnecessary, rehearsals of the opening scene between Mr Rushworth and Miss Price. Everyone else had their own little cares, their own little anxieties — there was so much employment, solicitude, and bustle that the unhappiness of the one member of the party who did not act was soon overlooked. Maria had loved Mr Rushworth — or thought she had — and now endured all the suffering of such a public disappointment, made worse by a strong sense of ill-usage. Her heart was sore, and she was not above hoping for some scandalous end to the affair, some punishment to Fanny for conduct so disgraceful towards herself, as well as towards Edmund. Such bitter feelings might have escaped the notice of the rest of the family, but Mary saw them, though the few attempts she made to shew her kindness or sympathy were repulsed as liberties. Nonetheless Mary could not see her sitting by disregarded with her mother and Julia, or walking alone in the garden, without feeling great pity.

A day was soon set for the first regular rehearsal of as much of the play as could be managed without Edmund. The actors were in the theatre at an early hour; Julia, though still delicate after her recent indisposition, was invested with the office of prompter, and the first scene began. Rushworth made his entrance, and Frederick encountered his mother with much amazement.

"For God’s sake, what is this!" cried Mr Rushworth, beholding Miss Price kneeling in an attitude of elegant despair. "Why do I find my mother thus? Speak!"

"My dear Frederick!" she said, embracing him with ardour. "The joy is too great — I was not prepared — "

"Dear Mother, compose yourself. How she trembles! She is fainting," he cried, as Miss Price leant gracefully against him, observing the directions with the most scrupulous exactness. The pause that then followed was so prolonged that Julia felt it necessary to prompt Miss Price with her next speech. Casting a look of some irritation in her cousin’s direction, Miss Price continued. "He talked of love, and promised me marriage," she said, in tones of becoming modesty. "He was the first man who had ever spoken to me on such a subject — don’t look at me, dear Frederick! I can say no more," and indeed she did not, though there was a certain half-glance at Mr Rushworth that seemed designed to convey a private meaning.

Mr Rushworth composed himself into yet another attitude of manly vigour, and pressed his companion’s hand next to his heart.

"Oh! My son!" she sighed. "I was intoxicated by the fervent caresses of — "

"You must excuse me, Fanny," said Julia, rising from her seat, "but this passage has been omitted."

"Yes, yes," said Miss Price quickly, returning to her own voice, "I recall. Mr Rushworth, we now move on to the next page.You begin again with “Proceed, proceed”."

Lady Bertram and her sister happened to choose this moment to join the small audience, and therefore witnessed only the closing moments of the scene. Mrs Norris was loud in her disappointment at missing Fanny’s triumph, but eventually accepted her assurance that there were several more scenes of equal potential, and took her seat.

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 — something 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 anything 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 something 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 driven 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.