Jane and The Wandering Eye jam-3 Read online

  In consideration of Reverend Lefroy’s behaviour, indeed, I begin to comprehend the excesses of his offspring — but will allow no hint of remonstration to fall from my lips.

  I apprehend, from the tenor of your missive, Jane, that you wish a full recital of Madam Lefroy’s misfortune, and some account of her final hours. I might caution you, perhaps, against the over-indulgence of a morbid sentiment, and the feverish immersion in all that pertains to the Passing of the Flesh; but I believe you to be a lady of some sense, Jane, and will trust in Providence and the excellent example of our beloved father, to preserve you from excesses of Emotion and Thought.

  I encountered Madam Lefroy myself on that fateful day, as our father has no doubt informed you from the intelligence of my late express. She remarked at the time that her mount was so stupid and lazy she could hardly make him go, and so we parted — I to return home, and she to conduct her business among the tradesmen of the town. At about the hour of four o’clock, however, Madam Lefroy was in the act of quitting Overton with her groom — when at the summit of Overton Hill, her horse was frighted by the report of a gun fired from the hedgerow not ten paces distant from the animal’s withers. The horse bolted, and the groom failed in his attempt to seize its head. From fright or unsteadiness, Madam Lefroy then threw herself off; and sustained the gravest concussion. After some little delay about the conveyance, she was carried home to Ashe, and there lingered some twelve hours. Mr. Charles Lyford of Basingstoke — you will remember him, I am sure — attended her; but she slipped away quietly in the early hours of Sunday morning. I do not know whether she stirred or spoke before the End.

  The shot that startled the horse has been imputed to the carelessness of a poacher — a poacher who remains at large, and will probably be far from his native turf at present, for the preservation of his neck. A just horror at the ruin his shot had caused, should undoubtedly have urged the rogue to flee under cover of the falling dark. His apprehension must go unaided by any report from Madam’s groom, who was necessarily engrossed in the pursuit and recovery of his mistress’s mount, now sadly destroyed — and so we must impute the Disaster to Him whose ways are hidden, and accept it with the propriety and grace becoming a Christian.

  Propriety and grace, however, are sadly lacking among the Lefroys at present, and I may congratulate myself at having borne my own Dear Departed’s passing with a more commendable fortitude, as my present Wife is quick to recollect. The Lefroys are a family destined to be plagued with misfortune, as Mary has also condescended to point out; the heedlessness and injury to young Anthony’s back, and his subsequent death, were almost a presaging of this fresh tragedy.[81] They had much better avoid the horses altogether in future. But, however — I could not find it remarkable in any of them to behave most lamentably throughout the service, and was duly resigned to demonstrations of grief on every side.

  You enquired, at the last, whether I have remarked the appearance of any strangers recently in the neighbourhood. There were a great many come for Madam Lefroy’s service — and I congratulate myself that I did not disappoint their expectations! — but I take it you would refer particularly to your acquaintance from Bath. How you come to know such disreputable persons as the man Smythe, I cannot begin to think, my dear sister; and when I mentioned the matter to my beloved Mary, she joined most vigorously in my opinion. For the full extent of his history, I was forced to enquire of the housemaid, Daisy, who was so unfortunate as to encourage the man’s lingering in the vicinity of the parsonage, through the offering of table scraps; and I have learned to my horror that he is a most dissolute person. If Daisy is to be credited, Smythe caroused in the Overton inn, meddled with the tradesmen’s daughters, and performed certain high jinks in the public lanes — tumbling and jumping for such pennies as the curious might afford him. We were only too glad to learn that he had quitted the vicinity as suddenly as he came; and must wonder at your having noticed him at all. Where he is gone, I cannot tell you.

  Daisy I have dismissed for her impertinence and want of proper discretion, with full pay and her character, of course.

  I remain, your most respectful Brother,

  Revd. Ja. Austen

  I set down the letter with hands that would tremble. Smythe had been in Overton; and Madam’s horse had been frighted by a shot from the hedgerow at Overton Hill’s summit. James could tell me nothing of dates; but I remembered Lord Harold’s opinion of coincidence, and knew that though I should never possess what Mr. Elliot should describe as proof, I had learned the name of Anne Lefroy’s murderer.

  Nothing should be simpler, than the achievement of the deed. Smythe had only to conceal himself in the hedgerow for the purpose, and fire a gun lent to him by Hugh Conyngham. For the precarious seat of ladies forced to ride side-saddle was everywhere acknowledged — and Madam’s ruin was certain. He might as readily have pointed the gun at her heart.

  “What a commendable letter, Jane,” Cassandra observed, “in its closing passages, particularly. I can never like my brother’s style or sentiments — he has grown too pompous with the advance of years, and his preferment in his profession — but his concern for your reputation is quite honestly expressed. He might have been altogether a different man, perhaps, if — that is to say—” Her voice trailed abruptly away.

  “Altogether different, had Anne survived,” I finished for her. We had all of us loved the elegant and well-bred Anne; her character was steady, her understanding excellent. And though we could not like Mary Lloyd half so well, our affection for her sister Martha would generally make us silent upon the subject.

  “Can you not confide in me, Jane, the reason for your attention to Madam Lefroy’s passing?”

  I avoided my sister’s eye. “There is nothing very extraordinary in it, surely? We must all of us feel the most lively interest on the subject.”

  “I cannot dismiss it soon enough. To dwell upon such matters is intolerable, and quite unlike your usual activity. You do not brood, Jane. I am quite confounded at the impulse that should solicit such a letter.”

  “You must not importune me, Cassandra,” I replied. “We all of us have different ways of grieving, and of making our last farewells. And now I think I should like to walk a little in the Crescent, and take a breath of air. Would you consent to accompany me, my dear?”

  • • •

  WE SAT DOWN TO AN EARLY DINNER, AS IS USUAL WITH the Austens; but a pull of the bell not long thereafter brought a note addressed to myself, and in Lord Harold’s crabbed hand. I was summoned to drink the season’s cheer and Lady Desdemona’s health, in Laura Place at eight o’clock.

  “Tea!” my mother exclaimed. “Had they considered you this morning, it might as well have been dinner. This is no very great honour, Jane, in being left so late — and on Christmas Eve, too! They have been disappointed in another of their party, I expect, and require your presence now merely to make up a table of cards. You had much better decline the invitation — for it will not do to seem grateful for so small a consideration.”

  “Indeed, ma’am, I am sure you mistake,” I calmly replied. “At her time in life, the Duchess has no very great love of distinction; and being formerly of less than the first rank herself, is more inclined to show interest than disdain for ladies with modest prospects. I would be gratified to drink her tea, I assure you.”

  “Oh, well — if you must throw yourself in his lordship’s way, it cannot be helped, I suppose,” my mother replied with an appearance of indifference. “Only tea! However, they may desire you to remain for supper, Jane, and I will not have you sitting down with a duchess in your brown cambric. Run along and exchange your gown for another, my dear, and do not neglect to leave off your cap. Mary will dress your hair.”

  IT WAS A SELECT AND EVEN ELEGANT PARTY THAT GATHERED in Laura Place this evening — the Duchess seated in comfortable intimacy with Lord Harold, while Lady Desdemona provoked the Earl and her brother to rueful laughter at the opposite end of the room. Miss Wren held d
own the middle part, established over her fringe— and at first I feared I should fall victim to her desire for a confidante, and learn every syllable of the abuse she must suffer, now Mona was to go away, and leave Miss Wren quite at the Dowager’s mercy — but at length, the young lady herself condescended to open the pianoforte, and required Miss Wren to turn the pages. Lady Desdemona commenced a Scotch air, her sweet voice swelling with pathos; and as if drawn by an invisible chord, the Earl moved close to the instrument to gaze upon his beloved.

  “You will recollect, Jane, that I said I would not have my Mona thrown away,” Lord Harold observed as he came to stand by my side. “I cannot now think any other man so deserving of her. My sources tell me that Swithin has entirely left off the opium trade, by the by, and indeed, has spent the better part of the years since his father’s death, in extricating the family fortunes from that dubious business.” A glint of amusement flickered in his hooded gaze, then vanished abruptly. “He is a ruthless fellow, but he has a character of iron; and men of that stamp are rare enough in any age. Mona is quite resigned to the Colonel’s infamy, happy in her brother’s release — and looks only to the future.”

  “But you, however, cannot,” I said.

  A swift look, as swiftly averted. “No,” Trowbridge replied. “I have had news this evening, my dear Jane, that must weigh heavily upon me. Maria Conyngham is dead.”

  “Dead!”

  “She hanged herself at Ilchester — tore the flounces from her gown, it seems, and wound them into a noose. Her brother is said to be mad with grief, and screaming vengeance on my head.”

  We were silent a moment; and in the confusion of my thoughts I heard Lady Desdemona’s voice — simple, pure, and joyous without reckoning. “You cannot feel yourself responsible, my lord,” I told Lord Harold, “for what Hugh Conyngham has done. The ruin of his sister’s life, and his own, was inspired by his lust for vengeance against Mr. Lawrence; and had he never been moved to violence — had he allowed Maria Siddons to rest in her grave — his sister might yet be treading the boards in Bristol this evening.”

  “I wonder, Jane,” Lord Harold mused. “I wonder. When I consider the Colonel, willing to risk everything to murder such a man — I cannot believe the plotting to be entirely Conyngham’s. Easton would not have lifted a finger for him. But for Maria Conyngham, he would have done much — even married a lady he did not love, in order to keep them both in fortune. No — the revenge against Mr. Lawrence was planned, I believe, by Maria alone; and now she has cheated even her brother, and left him to shoulder the blame.”

  “So much of ruin, for a girl already gone three years to her grave, and a man not worth speaking of,” I mused.

  “I imagine Maria Siddons would be gratified, did she know of it. She was, like Miss Conyngham, a creature formed for vengeance; and if Mr. Lawrence’s peace has been even a little disturbed by the threat to his person, she will be dancing tonight in heaven.”

  “And what of the portrait, my lord? Maria Siddons’s malevolent eye?”

  “It shall be returned, of course, to her mother — though I must admit to the temptation of tossing it in the river. Such ill-fortuned baubles should be entombed with their subjects.”

  “—Excepting, perhaps, Mr. Lawrence’s sketch of Maria Conyngham?”

  Lord Harold’s eyes failed to meet my own. I had observed him to secure the impassioned likeness within his coat the morning of our visit to the painter’s rooms, and I must suppose his lordship to retain it still; but I could hardly expect him to declare as much. Impertinence is usually met by Lord Harold with an impenetrable silence, as I had occasion to know; and the present instance would not warrant an exception.

  He sighed, and reached for my cup of tea. “This is hardly Christmas cheer, my dear. I shall fetch you some claret.”

  “My lord—”

  He turned, and lifted an eyebrow.

  “You must learn to endure it. As I have learned to endure Madam’s death,” I said softly.

  “I shall, Jane. I shall — as the hangman submits to his calling; with revulsion, and anxiety, until the grave is filled. It is a dreadful presumption to serve in judgement on one’s fellow men. It is to play a little at God — and though I have been accused of such a score of times before, I only now admit to approaching it.”

  “When justice is done, you may sleep in peace.”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “And until then, I believe I shall go away for a time.”

  I knew better than to enquire his direction.

  THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT STRUCK; LADY DESDEMONA THREW wide the drawing-room casements, and looked down into the street below. “Look, Grandmère! The Waits are come!” Her glowing face turned affectionately to Lord Kinsfell. “How happy I am, dear Kinny, that you are with us to hear them sing!”

  The Dowager cried out to Jenkins to conduct the Waits hither; and they very soon assembled before the drawing-room fire, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with cold. They were a rag-tag group of common folk, dressed for warmth rather than style, some of them no more than children — but the sound of their singing, when once they commenced, had the power to lift the heart. The very soul of Old England, rife with Yule logs and roasting mutton, good fellowship and love. I thought of Anne Lefroy, divided forever from her comfortable hearth, the table surrounded by children, and shivered with a sudden chill.

  God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay …

  I lifted my voice, and sang aloud with the rest.

  Примечания

  1

  In Austen’s day, it was the custom to travel about the streets of Bath and other major cities in hired sedan chairs carried by a man fore and aft. — Editor’s note.

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  2

  Eliza de Feuillide was both Jane Austen’s cousin and the wife of her brother Henry, but Jane usually refers to Eliza simply as her sister. It was a convention of the time to address relatives acquired through marriage in the same manner as blood relations. — Editor’s note.

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  3

  Sarah Siddons (1755–1831) was the foremost tragic actress of Austen’s day. With her brother, John Philip Kemble, Siddons dominated the London stage at this time, where it is probable Jane had seen her perform. — Editor’s note.

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  4

  Robert Adam’s renovation of Old Drury Lane Theatre in 1775 featured pale green and pink paint with bronze detailing — which the Dowager Duchess apparently emulated. Old Drury was pulled down and replaced by a newer building in 1794. This building burned to the ground in 1809. — Editor’s note.

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  5

  This was the original Bath theater on Orchard Street, where Jane was a frequent patron. Its company divided performances between Bath and Bristol, playing houses in each city on alternate nights — Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday in Bath; Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in Bristol. — Editor’s note.

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  6

  Elizabeth Farren was a member of the Drury Lane company during the 1780s and the recognized mistress of the Earl of Derby, who made her his second countess at his first wife’s death in 1797. — Editor’s note.

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  7

  James Gillray (1757–1815) was the foremost political caricaturist of Austen’s day. His satiric prints began to make their appearance in the 1780s. The aquatint engravings generally made sport of fashionable scandals or political missteps, much as do present-day political cartoons. — Editor’s note.

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  8

  These were the government’s public funds, one of the few reliable investments in Austen’s day, which generally yielded annuities of four percent per annum. — Editor’s note.

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  9

  Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the noted Georgian playwright of The School for Scandal and owner of the Drury Lane Theatre, was also a member of Parliament. Sheridan first came to Jane’s notice in 1787, when
he made a four-day speech against her family’s friend Warren Hastings, the former Governor-General of Bengal, during Hastings’s seven-year parliamentary trial for impeachment. — Editor’s note.

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  10

  The Pump Room was one of the social centers of Bath. It adjoined the King’s Baths, near the Abbey and Colonnade in the heart of the city, and was frequented by the fashionable every afternoon. There they would congregate to drink a glass of medicinal spring water presented by liveried pump attendants; to promenade among their acquaintance; and to peruse the calf-bound volume in which recent arrivals to the city inscribed their names and local addresses. Austen describes the Pump Room to perfection in Northanger Abbey, in which Catherine Morland and Isabella Thorpe make the place their second home. — Editor’s note.

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  11

  Jane refers here to the events related in the first volume of her edited journals, Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor (New York: Bantam Books, 1996). — Editor’s note.