The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (9 page)

“What a thrilling and amusing story!” commented she cheerfully. “Such refined language and wit—and such an astute imitation of Cervantes!”

“The plot is meticulously constructed,” agreed Mr. Stanhope, “and the book has great moral vision. Every time I read it, I find something new to appreciate.”

Some minutes were given over to further discussion of the merits of Charlotte Lennox’s work, a conversation which brought pleasure and gratification to both parties. Then Rebecca said, “Mama would be pleased to know that we are reading
The Female Quixote
to-night. I can see why it was her favourite book.”

“Your mother did, indeed, have exquisite taste in literature,” returned Mr. Stanhope with a smile. A handsome man, he was every where admired for his white and glossy hair, which curled above his ears. “Did I ever tell you, my dear Rebecca, the story of how I met your mother? It is a most delightful and amusing tale.”

Rebecca had heard the story so many times ever since she was a little child, that she could recite every word by heart;—but being of a sweet and benevolent nature, and knowing how much pleasure her father had in the telling, she only smiled, and answered, “I would love to hear it, papa.”

They stood and walked along the gravel path between the lawn and the shrubbery encircling the garden, as Mr. Stanhope recited the anecdote in all its minute details, animatedly recounting how beautiful her mother had looked that day,
the colour and style of the dress she had worn, and how he had made it his business to lay wooden boards across a muddy road so that she might cross it unsullied.

“I have never seen such a quagmire as I did that day—truly frightful!” said he at the conclusion of the tale.

Rebecca, who had come to regard to her father’s peculiar antipathy to dirt with fondness and good humour, yet could not prevent herself from saying in a tender and teasing voice, “I am sure it was a very dreadful pool of mud, papa! How gallant it was of you to preserve mama’s delicate shoes from absolute ruin. No wonder she fell in love with you.”

Her father, not detecting the gentle irony in her statement, said with great seriousness, “It was but the work of a moment. One never can tell when a spontaneous action, entirely unpremeditated, might change one’s life. I was very lucky, Rebecca, to have found your mother. I only hope you are as lucky one day, to find your life’s mate.”

“I hope so, too,” returned Rebecca with a smile.

“If only your mother were here with us to-day,” added he, sighing. “There is something I would very much like her to know.”

“What is that, papa?”

“Mr. Fitzroy has just informed me that after counting the proceeds from Sunday’s collection, we have at last amassed the sum required to purchase our new bells for the church tower.”

“Papa!” cried Rebecca with delight. “I knew you had nearly approached your goal, but I had no idea of your reaching it already. You truly have the amount entire—one hundred and fifty pounds?”

“I do. It was that last generous contribution from Mr. Brudenell, our neighbour at Farleigh, which helped put us
over the top. I cannot tell you how delighted I am.—After two long years, to have the money at last! Your mother would be very proud.”

“Indeed she would.” Rebecca could not forget how often and how earnestly Mrs. Stanhope had applied to her husband on the subject, insisting that their existing bells were too small and too ancient, and so badly cracked as to be unsightly. Three brand-new bells, she said, would be a welcome addition, and far more sonorous than two. To that end, and in her memory, Mr. Stanhope and the churchwarden had been working tirelessly the past two years, to raise the money for their purchase.

“There is just one matter that distresses me,” said Mr. Stanhope. “To commission the bells, I am obliged to go to the foundry in London, John Warner and Sons, and deliver the required sum in advance.”

“Oh.” Rebecca understood his unexpressed concern; for in the years since she had been born, Mr. Stanhope had never once left the county of Hampshire.

“It requires a journey of two days in each direction,” added Mr. Stanhope, “with an overnight stop en route,
and
a night in town—which means I shall be gone five full days.”

“What is five days?” said Rebecca, in an encouraging tone. “Truly, papa, it is nothing. You will be gone and back again before you know it.”

“But travel subjects one to all kinds of dirt. The roads are so dusty, and there is the danger of the vehicle overturning, or becoming stuck in mire. The beds in the coaching inns have been slept on by countless strangers, and as to dining—I hate to think of it.”

Rebecca was pained to see him so distressed. “You can bring your own plate and linens, papa. And I could
accompany you, if you wish—if I might be of any help, to keep your things tidy and ease your burden.”

“Oh! No, child! I would not think of it. Naturally, I would be glad of your company, but I should never subject you to the rigours of a long journey. You would not like London. It is a very dirty city. And in any case, it is impractical. If you came, it would more than double the expense. We should require
two
chambers or a suite of rooms at the inns, and I should be obliged to hire a post-chaise. On my own, I can travel by stage.”

“By stage! Papa, you detest public coaches.”

“I do, but I must practise economy wherever I can. I am still in debt for all the recent improvements to the house. That new bow window,” said he, pointing, as they passed, to the fashionable addition which provided both space and light in his study, “cost a pretty penny, not to mention the repairs to the roof.”

“Well, if we cannot afford it,” said Rebecca, truly very relieved that she did not have to go, “then I suppose you
must
go without me. And papa, consider that although you may be obliged to undergo some discomfort, it is all for a good purpose.”

“How right you are, my dear Rebecca,” said he with a nod, his smile slowly returning. “Pray, forgive the complaints and peculiarities of an old man. I have a duty, and I shall perform it. I am humbled by the sacrifices which our parishioners have made on the way to this achievement, and comforted by the knowledge that we shall at long last realise your dear mother’s dream.”

Rebecca cheerfully plunged her energies into assisting Mr. Stanhope with the preparations for his journey, and learning what she must do while he was away. Although the
greatest portion of the money for the three new bells had been raised in coin, Mr. Stanhope had been regularly changing the money into pound notes at the bank. He corresponded with the foundry, and a fortnight later saw Rebecca kissing him good-bye on the door-step, where a hired gig was to take him to Atherton, from whence he intended to catch the public coach.

“Your plate and linen are packed in your trunk,” said Rebecca, “and I made a small luncheon for you; it is in your bag.”

“Thank you, my dearest,” said he, giving her an affectionate embrace. “Do not worry about me. I shall return on Friday night.”

As he boarded the conveyance, Rebecca realised how much she would miss him during his absence, for in the past eight years, she had not been parted from him for so much as twenty-four hours; and she began counting the days until she would see his smile again.

To her surprise and dismay, the event occurred far sooner than anticipated. On Tuesday evening—the very day after his departure—Mr. Stanhope returned in a state of great anxiety. A calamity had struck. He had broken his journey, as planned, with an overnight stay at the King’s Arms at Leatherhead, Surrey; his progress there by stage had been uneventful; he had enjoyed a good dinner, and had slept soundly in a chamber that was surprisingly clean. But that morning, when he went to pay his bill, he discovered that nearly all the money in his pocketbook was gone!

C
HAPTER
II

“Dear God!” cried Rebecca. “Gone?”

“Gone! Not only my money, but the hundred and fifty pounds belonging to the church. Only a single one-pound note remained.”

“Papa, this is terrible! Could the money have been stolen while on the stage-coach?”

“No.” Mr. Stanhope paced back and forth in the parlour, wringing his hands as he spoke, his eyes quite wild with anguish. “I had it with me when I arrived. I distinctly recall it, for I paid for my dinner, and—” He hesitated, blushing slightly. “Afterwards, I played a game of cards with two well-dressed, congenial fellows.”

“Could you have accidentally left the money at the card-table?”

He shook his head. “All day, and all evening, I was very conscious of the fact that I had the church’s money with me, and was very protective of it. We only played speculation, and only for an hour, for I was tired. I bet very little—less than the price of my meal. I know I had my pocketbook with me, and all the money intact, when I returned to my room.”

“Let us think this through together, papa,” said Rebecca, striving to be calm. “Did you place the money somewhere for safe-keeping, before you retired?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you did, and have just forgotten. Did you search the room?”

“I checked every inch of the room. I went through all my pockets and my bag, but could not find the money anywhere. And I tell you: it was in my pocketbook.”

“When was the last time you saw your pocketbook?”

“I cannot recall exactly. I may have placed it on the bedside table before I slept—although I might have left it in my coat pocket.”

“Well then, some one must have stolen the money while you slept.”

“That is impossible, for I made certain to lock the chamber door, and I slept with the key beside me. It is a mystery, Rebecca. I applied to the innkeeper this morning, and made enquiries of the chambermaid, and all the guests at breakfast. No one knew a thing about it. Dear God! What am I to do? All those people’s hard-earned money—vanished! An hundred and fifty pounds! Two years it took to raise it! I had barely the resources to pay my bill. I am obliged to the innkeeper, who took pity on me, and was kind enough to loan me my return fare.”

“Oh, papa.” Rebecca sank down onto a chair, very distraught. “This is a horrible turn of events.”

“What am I to tell the parishioners? How can I face them?”

“You will; you
must
. Papa, it is not your fault.”

“Indeed it is. I am entirely responsible for this mis fortune.”

“But how can you be, if the money simply disappeared?”

He stared at the carpet, a mortified look on his countenance. “Over supper at the inn, I chatted with the people at my table. They asked the purpose of my journey, and being in a conversational mood, I recounted it—all about the new bells, and how much money we had raised. Any one could have overheard. I engaged in a similar conversation with the gentlemen at the card-table. I suppose I should have been more discreet; but I was not. Somehow, this
morning, I cannot think how or when, the money was taken from me.” Shaking his head in perplexity, he added, “I must tell Sir Percival immediately.”

That evening, Mr. Stanhope went to Claremont Park to secure an audience with his patron. Rebecca waited in a state of such fevered anticipation, that she was unable to concentrate on her needlework, or on the book she attempted to read.

The clock in the hall was just striking nine when Mr. Stanhope returned. Rebecca ran to meet him in the entry hall. The drawn look on his countenance, and the hunched attitude of his shoulders as he hung his hat, were so out of the ordinary, and conveyed such mute distress, that Rebecca knew at once he had received no positive reception, and she acutely felt his pain. She embraced him and led him into the parlour, where she ensured that he was seated comfortably before asking what had happened. It was some moments before he was composed enough to speak, and when he did, she learned thus:

He met with Sir Percival. He gave him a full and honest account of all that had occurred. In view of the circumstances, he felt it would be honourable to offer to tender his resignation—fully expecting that his patron would refuse such a notion outright, and respond with sympathy and support. To his dismay, the opposite took place.

Sir Percival, after a lengthy silence, during which time he seemed to be processing the news with both surprise and deliberation, issued the following pronouncement: that it was a very sorry business, but he believed Mr. Stanhope’s offer to be entirely correct and proper; that his tenants, in view of the circumstances—in particular, the fact that Mr. Stanhope had
played cards
the night of the money’s disappearance—would
no doubt demand it; that Mr. Stanhope was rapidly approaching the age of retirement in any case; that he himself had thought for some time that the infusion of fresh, young blood to run the parish would not be a bad idea; that a new man with new ideas, who did not gamble, and who would not be averse to collecting tithes, would improve the value of the incumbency; and that, in short, Mr. Stanhope
should
resign, and as soon as possible.

Rebecca listened to all this with astonishment, and when he had finished, cried,

“I cannot believe it! After all that you have done for this community—after an unblemished twenty-eight-year career in the parish, where you are loved by one and all—Sir Percival wants you to resign at such an early age, over some stolen funds? You are only sixty! Many clergymen retain their positions well into their seventies or eighties. It is most unfair! It was bad enough to complain about the tithes—for why should
he
care if you enrich yourself or not, by taxing his tenants? But to cite, as an example of unacceptable behaviour, that you played at cards—when you and he have engaged together in that harmless entertainment every Thursday evening for nearly three decades, at his very own house—it is unconscionable! With this ridiculous invective, papa, Sir Percival did not directly accuse you of incompetence, but he very clearly implied it!”