Murder at Mansfield Park

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."