Murder at Mansfield Park

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?"