The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (32 page)

“I understand you completely. When I was younger, I rarely wished to leave home; but my brother Philip always said that a little variation can be a very good thing. He was right. Every time I come away, I discover something new which delights me, and I am so happy I undertook the journey.”

This mention of Philip Clifton, brought back to Rebecca’s
mind the conversation she had held with him on this very subject, some weeks previously, while standing in the garden at Elm Grove Rectory. At the time, she had violently disagreed with his opinion of change, and had thought him both discourteous and impertinent. Now, she was beginning to think very differently; and she began to wonder if, on that
particular
matter at least, she might have judged him a little too harshly.

Miss Clifton’s voice broke into her thoughts. “From Philip’s letters, I gather that you saw him quite often at Medford?”

Rebecca’s cheeks warmed slightly. On their previous outings, she had successfully avoided any discussion of Mr. Clifton, not wanting to infect her friendship with his sister, by any mention of her feelings towards
him
, which could only deteriorate into a lengthy and unhappy review. Being now compelled to answer, she said,

“We had occasion to meet several times.”

“I envy you. I have not seen him in months, ever since he removed to Elm Grove. Even then his visit was brief.” She sighed. “It has been so long since I have had the pleasure of spending any real time with him. His first position, after he was ordained, was so far away, that he was rarely able to come to us; and before that, the whole time he was at Oxford, he was so devoted to his studies, I was obliged to rely on his regular correspondence to keep apprised of what was happening in his life.” There was no mistaking the genuine affection in Miss Clifton’s voice and countenance as she spoke.

“It sounds as though you and your brother are very close.”

“Oh! Yes, we have always been close, for we are the youngest of six children, only three years apart from each other.
Growing up, we had such fun running about the country, and engaging in all sorts of games together—do you know, we used to write little plays with only two characters in them, and perform them for our entire family in the barn?”

“My sister Sarah and I did exactly the same!” cried Rebecca. “We insisted that our cook, maid, and man-servant attend every performance, along with my mother and father, or we should never have had an audience large enough. I am certain if I were to find and read those early works of our youth now, I should find them dreadful! But at the time, we considered ourselves quite brilliant.”

“Certainly my parents let us
think
we were.” They laughed; and then Miss Clinton said more soberly, “Of course, they were right about Philip. He
is
brilliant in so many ways. He is, and always was, the best person I know. He is so good, kind, thoughtful, and considerate; ever since he was a boy, he has always thought of others before himself; and when he puts his mind to something, it becomes his entire focus. I have never met any one as hard-working or devoted.”

These positive remarks about Mr. Clifton gave Rebecca pause; but then she said, “I suppose if I had a brother, I should be equally partial to him.”

Miss Clifton looked at her. “You think me
too
partial to him—that I am guilty of a sister’s prejudice, and blinded to his faults.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did not need to,” responded Miss Clifton in a teasing voice. “I see it in your eyes; I hear it in your voice. But I am not the only one who thinks well of him. Every one in my family loves him dearly, and for good reason. Here, I shall prove it to you, by telling you something of him as a child.” She resettled herself on the grass, and said, “When Philip
was nine years old, one of our horses was very badly injured in its hoof. It was not Philip’s favourite horse, nor even the best in the stable, but when told that the beast must be put down, he refused to allow my father to do it. It was not right, he said. The animal deserved to live. So sternly and violently did he protest, that papa at last relented. Philip stayed up all night soothing the poor beast, and rarely left the barn for days. The animal was never able to be ridden again, but remained under Philip’s care for many years afterwards, spending its time in the pastures, until at last it died a natural death.”

Rebecca agreed that it was a good story.

“There are many other stories I could share, of acts of great kindness which my brother has performed, which are reflections of his good character. One occasion in particular stands out in my memory: it was perhaps six or seven years past. My mother had commented, with great regret, upon a bonnet which she lamented not buying on a previous outing to London. Philip travelled all the way to town deliberately to procure it for her, for her birthday.”

“How thoughtful,” said Rebecca sincerely.

“Indeed it was. I cannot begin to describe how thrilled and grateful my mother was! Ever since, that hat has been her favourite.” Smiling, Miss Clifton added, “Oh, and I can never forget the time, several years ago, when I was very ill. My brother rode all the way home from Oxford—a distance of an hundred and twenty miles—in a single day, in order to see me, and to bring a medicine which he thought might do me good. To this day, I believe that it was his visit which cured me, rather than the remedy—for time spent in his company always lifts my spirits.”

Rebecca listened with wonder to these anecdotes,
which presented Mr. Clifton in a very different light from that in which she had formerly held him.

As the two ladies rose, and made their way down the incline, Rebecca reflected upon the inconsistencies of human nature. How interesting it was, that the same young man who had been so unsympathetic with regard to her and her father’s plight, should be so much more generous when dealing with his
own
family and friends. But it was not surprising, really. What was it that Sir Percival had said?
Blood is thicker than water
.

It seemed Mr. Clifton shared that conviction.

C
HAPTER
XI

The first ball Rebecca attended at Bath was a great success. She felt pretty in her new white muslin gown; her hair, thanks to Mrs. Newgate’s hairdresser, was put up in a becoming style; and she was asked to dance by so many gentlemen, that her only opportunity to converse with the Newgates, her father, and Miss Clifton and Miss Russell, was at supper. At the next ball, a week later, freshly attired in pink silk, Rebecca received a proposal of marriage from a young, florid gentleman with whom she had danced only one set, and to whom she had spoken five sentences at most—an offer which she firmly refused. When she told her friends about it, the young ladies shared her amusement; and Mrs. Newgate solemnly agreed that Rebecca had done right and should hold out for a better offer, as the young man in question was not from one of the best families.

The proposal, coming as it had at a ball, made Rebecca
think of Mr. Spangle, and with more generosity and regret, of Dr. Jack Watkins. She wondered how Dr. Watkins was faring in London, and fondly replayed their conversations in her mind. It saddened her to think that their friendship—and what might, at least in
her
mind, have amounted to
more
than a friendship—was over entirely; that she would, most likely, never see or hear from him again.

With longing, she thought of Elm Grove—of the house which was so dear to her—and she wondered how Martha, Eliza, Mr. Gower, and Mrs. Wilson were faring. She missed her sister a great deal, and was grateful for the regular letters which Sarah sent, relating all the events in her life. Every detail was of interest to Rebecca: Sarah’s garden had stopped blooming; George had scraped his knee; Charles had acquired a new book from the circulating library; they had experienced an early frost; Mrs. Harcourt had been ill again, but it did not appear to be any thing serious. To Rebecca’s disappointment, she did not receive a single letter from Amelia, despite writing to
her
twice.

As time went on, however, Rebecca found herself thinking less and less of home and Medford, and more of the many delights of Bath. The same held true for Mr. Stanhope; for one morning he told Rebecca,

“Our life at Elm Grove was very satisfying, and I knew myself to be useful there; but it is as I thought and hoped—leaving has opened the world to our view, and allowed us both to experience a great many pleasures which would otherwise have been denied us.”

Rebecca’s favourite entertainment—the evenings she looked forward to with particular eagerness—were the concerts, held every Wednesday in the Upper Rooms, under the direction of Mr. Rauzzini, a refined gentleman of great
musical taste who was highly regarded in the city. A diversity of musical programs were offered, from a small orchestra to individual singers or a choral group; and while listening to these presentations, Rebecca closed her eyes, and felt as if she were carried away on a blissful cloud. The music continued to ring in her mind for days afterwards; she often found herself humming the tunes. One evening, after a woman sang a lovely Italian song, Mr. Stanhope insisted that Rebecca’s abilities were superior, which she immediately discredited; the next week, a masterful performance on the pianoforte both thrilled her and gave her a little pang, for she greatly missed playing that instrument.

Her friendship with Miss Clifton was particularly agreeable. Although Rebecca could not like Miss Russell, she endured her company because it afforded her the opportunity to spend time with her friend. Rebecca continued to hear good reports from both of them with regard to Mr. Clifton. Indeed, Miss Russell seemed quite enamoured of the gentleman, and often spoke as if he were her particular beau.

The only diversions Rebecca did not like were the private parties she was obliged to attend with her hosts—evenings of elegant stupidity, peopled by the snobbish and the dull. They did indeed drink tea, as prophesied, with the honourable Lady Carnarvon, whom the Newgates regarded with the highest degree of esteem. Rebecca, on the other hand, considered the viscountess a disagreeable woman of great self-importance, who judged others entirely on outward appearances, without seeing or valuing any thing which might lie within. Mr. Stanhope enjoyed these soirees more than Rebecca did, for he had a gregarious and forgiving nature, and could fit in any place. For
her
, the games of cards were an obligation rather than an amusement; for
him,
they were a
temptation. Once or twice, she felt certain she observed him glance longingly at the Speculation, Loo, and Vingt-et-Un tables; but since they arrived at Bath, Mr. Stanhope had made a solemn pact with his daughter to play only those games which did not involve betting, and he kept his word.

The precarious state of their finances was never far from Rebecca’s mind. Although the Newgates continued to be accommodating, she and her father could not stay with them for ever. When she brought up the subject, however, Mr. Stanhope admitted that he hoped to remain another two months—until Christmas, at least.

“What will we do then, papa?” inquired she, worried. “Will we be obliged to find yet another friend or relation who is willing to take us in?”

Mr. Stanhope sighed and nodded. “Unless some one produces a freehold for our benefit, Rebecca dearest—or you were to
marry
—we will likely remain itinerant for life.”

His reference to marriage—a subject which they had only rarely ever discussed—was so unexpected, and so weighted with unspoken hope and meaning, that it took Rebecca by surprise. Teasingly, she offered her apologies for having turned down the young officer’s proposal at the ball the other night; which made them both laugh.

“I do not mean to imply that you ought to accept the first man who makes you an offer, my dear,” said Mr. Stanhope emphatically, “and you should certainly not take a stranger. A comfortable home and income is only one component of the equation, of which love must be the biggest part. Whoever you marry must be a good man who loves and respects you—a true gentleman, who proves his character and worth not with words, but by his deeds. And you must love and respect him equally in return.”

Rebecca hugged him, and avowed that she could not agree more.

During their fourth week at Bath, Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope had made plans to join Miss Clifton and Miss Russell on another country walk. That morning, however, he was laid up with a mild cold, the result of a stroll in a frigid wind on the parades the day before. Rebecca left him wrapped in a warm blanket by the fire, with his tea and his reading, and ventured out to meet her friends at Sydney Place. To her surprise, when she arrived at their appointed spot, she found the two young ladies in the company of Mr. Philip Clifton.

“Look who is here!” cried Miss Clifton, as Rebecca approached, and Mr. Clifton bowed and doffed his hat. “Is not it the most wonderful surprise? My brother showed up at our house without any warning yesterday evening. After such a tedious journey, he was so desirous of a walk, that when he asked to accompany us to-day, I could not possibly refuse. I hope you do not mind.”