Murder at Mansfield Park

appeared, carrying a tray and a pitcher of spruce-beer.
    ‘I come bearing gifts,’ he said, ‘but I am not Greek, and you need not fear me.’
    ‘ Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes. I did not know you read Virgil, Mr Maddox.’
    ‘And I did not know you read Latin, Miss Crawford. There is a good deal, I suspect, that we do not yet know of one another.’
    Mary noticed that ‘yet’, but she did not remark upon it.
    ‘My sister says there is some thing you wish to discuss with me?’
    ‘Quite so. May I?’ he said, indicating the chair.
    ‘Of course. Pray be seated.’
    He sat for a moment, looking at her face, and she became self-conscious. The wound had started to heal above her eye, but there would always be a scar. It was little enough in itself,
considering what might have been, and she had never prided herself on her beauty alone, seeing it as both ephemeral and insignificant; but she had not yet become accustomed to her new face, and his
intent gaze unsettled her.
    ‘My apologies,’ he said quickly. ‘I did not mean to stare in such an unmannerly way, only—’
    ‘Only?’
    ‘It occurred to me, just then, that we have a good deal in common, besides a liking for Virgil. And a scar above the left eye.’
    Mary laughed. ‘That is no way to ingratiate yourself with a lady, Mr Maddox! You should be thankful that your profession does not require you to obtain information under cover of
flirtatious gallantry. You would never resolve a crime again.’
    She had meant it as a joke, but his face fell, and she felt, for a moment, as remorseful if she had chosen her words on purpose to wound him.
    ‘I am sorry, Mr Maddox, I did not mean—’
    He waved his hand. ‘No, no. Think nothing of it. I was merely momentarily discomfited. The conversation is not going in the direction I had intended.’
    ‘And what did you intend, Mr Maddox?’
    ‘To ask you to marry me.’
    She could not pretend it came as a surprise; she had been aware, for some time, of a particularity in his manners towards her, and since her convalescence, his attentions had become so
conspicuous that even Dr Grant could not avoid perceiving in a grand and careless way that Mr Maddox was somewhat distinguishing his wife’s sister. But all the same, as every young lady
knows, the supposition of admiration is quite a different thing from a decided offer, and she was, for a moment, unable to think or speak very clearly.
    ‘I see I have taken you by surprise,’ he said. ‘You will naturally wish for time to collect your thoughts. Allow me, in the mean time, to plead my case. It is, perhaps, not the
most romantic language to use, but you are an intelligent woman, and I wish to appeal, principally, to that intelligence. I know you have an attachment to Mr Norris—’ she coloured and
started at this, but he continued, ‘I have no illusions, Miss Crawford. My affections are, I assure you, quite fervent enough to satisfy the vanity of a young woman of a far more
trivial cast of mind than your own, but I have known for some time that I would have a pre-engaged heart to assail. I know, likewise, that you will now be a woman of no inconsiderable fortune. But
what can Mr Norris do for you—what can even your brother do—compared to what I shall do? I am not the master of Lessingby, but I am, nonetheless, a man of no inconsiderable
property. If such things are important to you, you may have what house you choose, and have it completely new furnished from cellar to attic, and dictate your own terms as to pin-money, jewels,
carriages, and the rest. But I suspect such things are not important to you. My offer to you is independence. Heroism, danger, activity, adventure. The chance to travel—to see the
world. All the things that men take for granted, and most women do not even have the imagination to dream of, far less embrace. But you, I fancy, are an exception. What would be tranquillity and
comfort to little Maria Bertram, would be tediousness and vexation to you. You are not born to sit still and do nothing. Even if he makes a complete recovery, which is by no means certain,
you are no more fitted to be Edmund Norris’s sweet little wife than I would be. And if he does not recover, you will waste your youth and beauty pushing an invalid in a bath chair,
buried in a suffocating domesticity. Do not make the mistake of marrying a man whose understanding is inferior to your own—do not hide your light under a bushel, purely to do him