Murder at Mansfield Park

would be the master of Lessingby now, and not my
brother.’
    He shook his head. ‘Your words only serve to remind me of my own shame. I should never have allowed the engagement to persist so long. It was cowardice—rank cowardice. I should have
spoken to Sir Thomas long ago; had I done so, he would never have allowed the connection to endure as long as it did. I would have been released, and she—she might still be living
today.’
    ‘But everyone—every thing —was against you. Duty, habit, expectation. Such an arrangement—established when you were so young, and supported as it was by your whole
family—it would have taken great courage to give it up.’
    ‘A man should always do his duty, Miss Crawford, however difficult the circumstances. Indeed, there is little merit in doing so, unless it demands some exertion, some struggle on our part.
Long standing and public as was the engagement, I had a duty to her, as well as myself, not to enter knowingly into a marriage without affection—without the true affection that alone can
justify any hope of lasting happiness.’
    His words struck her with all the force of a thunderbolt. She knew—had always known—how wretched she would be if she were to marry a man she did not love, and yet only a few hours
before she had been giving serious consideration to just such an alliance. She had even reasoned herself into believing that Maddox might be the only man in the world who could place a just value
on her talents, and that they might—as he had insisted—have much in common; not merely a shared literary taste, but a general similarity of temper and disposition. But now the truth of
her own heart was all before her. Whatever the inconveniences that might lie before them—whatever the attractions of another course—she loved Edmund Norris still; loved him, and wished
to be his wife.
    She rose to her feet. ‘I will detain you no longer, Mr Norris. I must find Mr Maddox, and beg a few minutes’ conversation with him in private.’
    Had she doubted his affection before, she could do so no longer; the expression of his face sank gradually to a settled and blank despair. It was as if a lamp had flickered and gone out.
    ‘I hope you will be happy, Miss Crawford,’ he said, in a low voice, turning his face away.
    ‘I hope so too, Mr Norris; but it will not be with Mr Maddox, if I am.’
    It was said with some thing of her former playfulness, and when he looked up at her, he saw that she was smiling.
    ‘I have decided to refuse him. After all, how can I marry Mr Maddox when I have already given my heart to another?’

 
    CHAPTER XXIII
    It was a very quiet wedding. Neither Mary nor Edmund had any inclination for needless ostentation, but it would not have escaped the notice of those schooled in matters of
fashion, that the refined elegance of the bride’s gown owed as much to the generosity of her brother, in sending for silks from London, as it did to her own skills as a needlewoman. They had
been obliged to wait until the three months of deep mourning were over, but that period had been, all things considered, a happy time; Mary had worked on her wedding-clothes, and wandered about the
park with Edmund all the autumn evenings, under the last lingering leaves, raising his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness. His health improved so well under this agreeable regimen
that by the time the couple met at the altar he was able to walk from the church unaided, with his bride on his arm. Sir Thomas was not the only onlooker to observe the effect of real affection on
his nephew’s disposition, nor the only one to attribute it to Mary’s lively talents and quick understanding. Mr Maddox had been cruelly disappointed by her rejection, even if he had not
ranked his chances of success very high, but his self-control in her presence had been punctilious, and when he departed the neighbourhood some few days thereafter, he had called at the parsonage
to bid her the farewell of one who wished to remain always her friend.
    They had stood on the sweep before his carriage, his trunks and notebooks neatly stowed, and his assistants waiting at a discreet distance.
    ‘I hope you are leaving us with the reward that is owing to you, Mr Maddox,’ she said.
    He smiled. ‘I would rather be leaving with some thing quite different. But, yes, my pockets are well enough lined; Sir Thomas has been very generous. Though he had no compunction in
pointing