Murder at Mansfield Park (9 page)

‘Oh! It shall be. It
is
,’ said Mary, making an effort for her brother’s sake. ‘Let us say no more about it, I entreat you. I shall have forgotten the whole affair by morning.’

‘I fear it may prove more enduring than that,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘Just now, when I was with them, I heard Norris asking Miss Price about the necklace.’

‘Mr Norris?’ asked Mary, the colour rushing to her face.

‘The very same. That necklace you are wearing was evidently
his
gift.’

The truth rushed on Mary in an instant; all of Mr Norris’s unaccountable conduct in the ball-room was now explained; his surprise, his seemingly unintelligible words, and the way he had looked at her,
that
was fully accounted for by the extraordinary spectacle of a gift he had presented to one woman being conspicuously displayed around the throat of another.

‘I must find an opportunity to explain,’ she said, in distracted tones, rising from her chair. ‘I must speak to him instantly, I cannot let him think that I—’

‘My dear Mary,’ replied Henry, detaining her, ‘you have not heard the end of my story. When Miss Price gave no immediate answer to his question,
Mrs
Norris hastened to explain to him that your necklace is, in fact, an entirely different ornament, of a similar pattern to the one he gave Fanny, but—and here I had difficulty in holding my peace—of
inferior workmanship
.’

‘But why?’ stammered Mary. ‘What can be the justification for such an unnecessary deception?’

‘Perhaps because Mrs Norris’s beady little eyes have detected some part of the truth? That Miss Price no longer cares for her son—that is, if she ever did—and her making his gift over to you is proof of that. But, one thing you may be sure of—one thing we may
both
be sure of,’ this with a look of meaning, ‘is that old Mother Norris will not let it go as easily as that. That marriage is the favourite project of her heart, and she will do any thing necessary to secure it—even if it means practising deceit on her own son.’

‘But why should
Fanny
do such a thing?’ said Mary. ‘She must have known the effect it would produce on Edmund— Mr Norris. I can quite believe that she would connive most happily at any thing that caused
me
embarrassment, but what can she hope to gain by behaving so discourteously to Mr Norris? What can be her motive?’

‘I do not pretend to understand Miss Price,’ said Henry grimly, ‘but could it be that she wishes to put his affection to the test? Or to ascertain if he has feelings for another?’

He stopped. By this time Mary’s cheeks were in such a glow, that curious as he was, he would not press the article farther.

‘I do not like deceiving Mr Norris,’ said Mary after a few moments, oppressed by an anguish of heart.

Henry sighed, and took her hand. ‘But unless you propose to
un
deceive him, and therefore to contradict Mrs Norris (which would cause no end of vexation, and not least to you, my dear Mary), then I do not see how it is to be avoided.’

In such spirits as Mary now found herself, the rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She danced every dance, though without any expectation of pleasure, seeing it only as the surest means of avoiding Edmund. She told herself that he would soon be gone, and hoped that, by the time of his return, many days hence, she would have succeeded in reasoning herself into a stronger frame of mind. For, although she could see that, contrary to his earlier reserve, he now very much wished to speak to her, she could not yet bear the prospect of listening politely to apologies that had been extorted from him by falsehood.

CHAPTER VI

The house was very soon afterwards deprived of its master, and the day of SirThomas’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 some thing 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 theatre 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 any thing 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 any thing, 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.