Murder at Mansfield Park

The last arrival was soon followed by tea, a ten miles’ drive home allowing no waste of hours, and from the time of their sitting down, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door. It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was outwardly as pleasant as the serenity of nature could make it; but it was altogether a different matter to the ladies within. Their spirits were in general exhausted — all were absorbed in their own thoughts, and Fanny and Maria in particular, seemed intent on avoiding one another’s eye. The party stopped at the parsonage to take leave of the Crawfords, and then continued on to the Park, where Mr Rushworth was invited to come in and take a glass of wine, before resuming the journey to Sotherton. But the company had scarcely entered the drawing-room when Lady Bertram rose from the sopha to meet them, came forward with no indolent step, and falling on her son’s neck, cried, "Oh, Tom, Tom! What are we to do?"

Chapter 8

Nothing can convey the alarm and distress of the party. Sir Thomas was dead! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured any where. Lady Bertram’s looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable. It was a terrible pause; every heart was suggesting, "What will become of us? What is to be done now?"

Edmund was the first to move and speak again. "My dear madam, what has happened?" he asked, helping his aunt to a chair, but Lady Bertram could only hold out the letter she had been clutching, and exclaim in the anguish of her heart, "Oh, Edmund, if I had known, I would never have allowed him to go!"

Entrusting Lady Bertram to her daughters’ care, Edmund turned quickly to the letter.

"He is not dead!" he cried a moment later, anxious to give what immediate comfort was within his power. Julia sat down in the nearest chair, unable to support herself, and Tom started forward, saying, "Then what is the matter? For God’s sake, Edmund, tell us what has happened!"

"He is not dead, but he is very ill. The letter is from a Mr Croxford, a physician in Keswick. It appears my uncle elected to undertake an inspection of the property on horseback, and suffered a dreadful fall, and a serious contusion to his head. It was some hours before he was missed, and several more before he was discovered, by which time he was unconscious, and very cold, and had bled a good deal. This Mr Croxford was sent for at once, and initial progress was good. That afternoon he opened his eyes — "

"So he is better — he is recovered!" cried Julia in all the agony of renewed hope.

" — but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness, and by the evening he was alternating between fits of dangerous delirium in which he scarce knew his own name, and moments of lucidity, when he seemed almost himself. At the time of writing, Mr Croxford admits that the signs are still alarming, but he talks with hope of the improvement which a fresh mode of treatment might procure. “Before he sank into his present wildness,”" Edmund continued, his voice sinking, "“Sir Thomas begged me to ensure that this letter should go to Mansfield at once, and by private messenger. Knowing himself to be in danger, and fearing that he may never see his beloved family again, he demanded a promise from me, with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, that I would communicate to you his wish, perhaps his dying wish — ”"

Edmund stopped a moment, then added, in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "I think, perhaps, that it would be better if we deferred the discussion of such a subject until tomorrow — it is a matter of some delicacy."

Mr Rushworth offered at once to withdraw, but Miss Bertram stopped him, saying, "What is it, Edmund? What are my father’s wishes?"