The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  A few minutes more brought them all within speaking range.

  “Miss Stanhope!” cried Mr. Brook Mountague, holding up his catch, as bows and a curtsey were exchanged. “If you have come for dinner, you are too early; these fish were still swimming just moments ago.”

  “I had no idea of dining with you, sir,” replied she, in as cheerful a tone as she was able. After greeting Sir Percival, she added, “How nice to see you, Mr. Clifton. I had not heard of your coming to Claremont Park.”

  Mr. Clifton only briefly met her gaze. “I arrived this morning. I had business in Winchester, and thought to stop and see my uncle before returning home.”

  “I see you have made a fine catch.”

  “It is a fine day for fishing,” said Sir Percival.

  “Every summer day in these parts is a fine day for fishing, when you employ the best bait and hooks!” cried Brook Mountague with animation, clapping Mr. Clifton on the back. “As my cousin well knows from our many expeditions in our youth, and will rediscover for himself soon enough!”

  “Oh? Do you plan on a long visit, Mr. Clifton?” enquired Rebecca.

  Mr. Clifton blushed and darted a sharp, silencing look at his cousin, which Rebecca could not account for. Mr. Mountague, however, caught some meaning in it, for his eyes widened, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. “He—that is to say—” Mr. Mountague began, but his father interrupted,

  “Miss Stanhope, what brings you out this way? Is Lady Mountague expecting you? If so, we would not wish to delay your visit further.”

  “She is not expecting me, sir. I have come with another purpose entirely. I wish to speak with you, if you please.”

  “Indeed? Very well, then.” Sir Percival instructed his son and nephew to take their catch to the house, in which direction the two set off immediately. Turning his full attention to Rebecca, he said, “Let us make the approach together, shall we? I think I can guess what this is about. Your father has told you the unhappy news, I expect?”

  “Yes,” admitted she, as they walked together across the lawn, adding warmly, “Sir! You cannot mean what you said yesterday evening. You cannot intend my father to resign from a position he so greatly values, and in which he has proved, through years of selfless devotion, that he is very capable and highly respected.”

  “It is true that your father has, for the most part, very ably carried out his duties in the past. But in view of recent events, I have no choice, Miss Stanhope. Surely you can see that.”

  “I cannot see it, sir. He has done nothing wrong. My father was the victim of a theft. It was not his fault!”

  “I comprehend that you wish to support your father, my dear,” replied Sir Percival calmly, “and that you place great trust in him; as his daughter, it is only right that you should feel this way. But you were not there when this supposed ‘theft’ occurred. Perhaps it was not a theft at all.”

  “What are you implying, sir?” demanded Rebecca, her ire rising.

  “Your father admits that he was gambling that night.”

  “As he has done at your very own table, sir, every Thursday evening for nearly three decades! You know how mild is his temper; you also know how conservative is his style. Can you truly imagine that he would bet and lose an hundred and fifty pounds at a single game of cards?”

  “He said he met up with a couple of wealthy aristocrats at the inn that night. Playing in such company, I find it entirely conceivable that he could gamble away such a sum.”

  “It is not conceivable. My father is too highly principled. He would never behave in such a disreputable manner, and he would never use a penny of the parish’s money for gaming. The new bells were to honour my mother. He would have done nothing to stand in the way of their commission—nothing.”

  “So you say; but we have only your father’s word for it.”

  “His word is gold! He is the best of men. He is incapable of uttering a falsehood.”

  “Even the best of men can be led astray, Miss Stanhope, or commit an act of folly.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps we shall never know the truth of it. But the sad fact is, the money is gone, and the new bells with it. I see it as a sign that it is time for your father to move on as well. And it is too late to reconsider. I have promised the incumbency to my nephew.”

  “Your nephew?” gasped Rebecca. “You do not mean—Mr. Clifton?”

  “Several years ago, I promised Philip the living of Elm Grove when it became vacant. I did not expect the event to occur very soon; but this episode has brought matters into a new light.”

  Rebecca now understood Mr. Clifton’s reticent and uncomfortable behaviour when they had spoken earlier; he knew that he was to be the means of dispossessing her father of his benefice and her from their home. “Mr. Clifton is young, and newly ordained,” cried she. “Surely he should be more experienced before taking charge of a parish on his own.”

  “Philip has served as a curate for over a year—at a very meagre wage, barely enough to afford food and lodging. He is a good, hard-working, and devoted priest. He will be good for this community.”

  “Cannot he wait a while longer to advance to this benefice? You and my father were at school together, Sir Percival. You have known him more than forty years. You cannot turn your back on a friendship of such long standing!”

  “Blood is thicker than water, Miss Stanhope,” was Sir Percival’s curt reply.

  They had reached the veranda now, where Lady Mountague, having issued from the door in time to hear the last portion of this exchange, was standing with a disagreeable look on her face.

  “Miss Stanhope,” said she, “do give up these foolish entreaties; they only fall on deaf ears. My husband has made a promise to our nephew, and I assure you, he will not go back on his word.”

  Rebecca was silenced. She quickly curtseyed and took her leave.

  CHAPTER IV

  When she got home, Rebecca found her father walking through the house, his hands behind his back, fondly studying the pictures on the walls, as if silently saying good-bye. All his former strength and cheerfulness seemed to have returned to him; but although it did her good to see it, her mind still revolted at the injustice done to him.

  “It is an outrage!” asserted she, after relating all that had transpired. “Clearly Sir Percival is taking advantage of your misfortune as an excuse to remove you from office, for the benefit of his nephew.”

  “That may be; but there is nothing to be done about it.”

  “He gives no thought to the sufferings which we will endure—and neither will Mr. Clifton.”

  “Why should Mr. Clifton think of us, my dear?” returned her father generously. “Surely he has aspirations of his own. I myself waited eight years for this benefice to fall vacant, wishing all that time that the incumbent would pop off, so that I might take his place and at last be allowed to marry your mother.”

  “Papa! You never did.”

  “It is true. When a man is young and ambitious, it is natural that his own interests should take precedence in his heart. I quite understand Sir Percival’s wish to promote his nephew. I should hate to think of a young man like Mr. Clifton being obliged to wait as long as I did to establish himself.”

  “You are too good, papa; truly you are. You always think the best of every body. But surely, in this instance, you will allow me to hate Sir Percival and his nephew just a little?”

  “No, Rebecca; you must not think ill of them. I have given this a great deal of thought, all through the night and morning, and I have come to believe that every thing has happened for the best. We have lived long enough in this village. It is time for a change.”

  “I do not wish to change. I love our life as it is, papa.”

  “No one actively wishes to change a circumstance which is pleasant, comfortable, and rewarding, my dear; but in the end, change is inevitable. It will come, whether we wish it or not.”

  “But what are we to do?”

  “We shall follow Goethe’
s advice: ‘The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.’” With a comical face, and a little flourish of his wrist, he straightened, and said, “We shall travel.”

  Rebecca could not help but smile at his antics. “Papa, you hate travelling.”

  “Lately, yes; and this last journey certainly did nothing to improve my taste for it; but I quite enjoyed rambling about in my youth. I have grown too old and set in my ways, Rebecca—and I have been remiss. By remaining always at Elm Grove, by never taking you anywhere, I have neglected you.”

  “Oh, no! You never neglected me, papa.”

  “I have. To shew you and your sister our fine country, to introduce you to its many wonders—this should have formed one of the basic foundations of your education. It is a shame, now that we have the opportunity—or should I say, the obligation—to go forth, I have no longer the means to do so as I would like. And yet, somehow we shall overcome this obstacle and find a way. We shall begin by going to your sister.”

  “To Sarah? But Medford Vicarage is too small. Sarah has made it clear that there is insufficient space for guests.”

  “The house cannot be half so small as she claims. When I write to her and explain our circumstances, I am certain she and Charles will make room for us, if only for a little while. We should not impose on them for long, only until I can make some other arrangement. After that—who knows where the road might take us?”

  Rebecca felt a rush of shame. To think that they must give up their independence, and would be for ever obliged to live off the goodwill of others—it was dreadful! But when she perceived her father’s resolve, and the new light of interest in his eyes, it kindled within her a tiny, unexpected glimmer of expectation and hope. Yes, they must give up their beloved home and leave Elm Grove; this would be very hard, and cause them both pain; their lives would never be the same again;—but perhaps some good might come of it. Certainly, she welcomed an opportunity to enjoy her sister’s company, and that of her little niece and nephews. Furthermore, she was curious to see Sarah’s house, as well as the village of Medford and its inhabitants, which she knew of only by her sister’s regular and detailed reports.

  Rebecca did have one particular regret in removing thither; it was the knowledge that a relation of Sir Percival’s—his older sister, Mrs. Penelope Harcourt—was the primary landholder in Medford, and a very rich old widow. It was through Sir Percival’s influence with his sister that Sarah’s husband Charles had been appointed to his benefice as vicar; and for that Rebecca was grateful. But in view of present circumstances, she had rather not be obliged to deal with any body connected with Sir Percival ever again. It seemed, however, that they had no alternative. They could not afford a house of their own; nor could she think of any other friends or relatives with the means to take them in. Nodding, and summoning new-found strength of resolve, she said more cheerfully,

  “I suppose that is an excellent proposal, papa. From all we hear, Medford is a charming village—and I would dearly love to see Sarah and our family.”

  “There’s a good girl. I am glad to see that smile again.”

  Looking about the house, Rebecca asked, “What shall we do with all our belongings?”

  “The furniture will be too expensive to move. I shall ask your sister if she wants any of the smaller things; whatever she cannot use, we must sell.”

  “Can we keep nothing?”

  “Only your clothes and a few personal possessions.”

  Rebecca’s heart caught at this. “But papa—your books! Our pictures! My pianoforte! My harp!”

  “I doubt your sister has room for such things, my dearest;—and we ought to travel as lightly as possible. We may keep only what we can each fit into one trunk.”

  “One trunk?” Rebecca repeated softly; and in despair, she nodded, promising to be as useful in this endeavour as she possibly could.

  Confirmation soon arrived from Sarah, commiserating in their misfortune, and welcoming them to Medford Vicarage with open arms, for as long as they wished to stay. Sarah gratefully accepted the gift of her mother’s linen, plate, and china, which were of a superior quality to any she possessed. These were dutifully packed and sent. A fortnight later, the rest of the Stanhopes’ prized family possessions had been disposed of, all sold at a significant loss. Rebecca could not help but feel a pang when her beloved pianoforte, the harp which had given her so many years of enjoyment, and the bulk of her music were carted away (after retaining only a few favourite sheets as a memento).

  It was very hard indeed to let go of her father’s precious collection of over four hundred books, particularly when the best offer came from the new occupant of the house, the odious Mr. Clifton. It made Rebecca’s blood boil to think that he, at age twenty-five, should become the owner of a collection which had taken her father a lifetime to acquire! The new rector bought most of the furniture and pictures as well, as theirs very nicely fit the proportions of the rooms, and he had nothing of his own. The funds for said purchases, he told Mr. Stanhope, would come from the interest on money given to him by his father, which had helped support him at Oxford, and had supplemented his income the past year. Rebecca heard this with disdain, recalling that Sir Percival had made it seem as though Mr. Clifton was barely able to make ends meet in his prior position.

  Rebecca could not comprehend how her father could conduct these transactions with the very man who was stealing away both his home and position. Although Mr. Stanhope insisted he felt no antipathy towards Mr. Clifton, and that the man had paid very generously for every thing, she could not be so magnanimous. While they concluded their negotiations, she kept herself away in the shrubbery, unequal to the task of witnessing the selling of every tangible thing she knew and loved. As she strolled about the garden, she tried to commit to memory every beloved flowerbed, tree, shrub, and herb, and every winding path. At length, she took refuge in the shelter of her favourite elm, a spot to which she had often ventured when she wished to read, or escape notice; for the trunk was so large that it shielded the occupant of its bench from view of any one walking by. With a sigh, she recalled sitting in that very spot only a short time ago, reading with her father, under much happier circumstances;—and she spent a quarter of an hour indulging in melancholy reflections.

  Soon hearing approaching footsteps on the gravel path, and thinking it to be her father, Rebecca stepped out from behind the tree and put on a smile. It was not Mr. Stanhope, however, who halted in surprise before her: it was Mr. Clifton. Quickly removing his hat, he stared at her in confusion; then, with grave propriety, he said,

  “Miss Stanhope. Good afternoon.”

  “Are you out to inspect your garden, sir?” replied Rebecca coolly but politely. “If so, I hope you find it to your liking.”

  “It is a very nice garden. But—I only thought to cut across the lawn and through the gate to gain access to the fields.”

  “That is not the most expeditious route to the manor-house, Mr. Clifton.”

  “I enjoy a long walk, and the neighbourhood is very fine.”

  “Indeed it is. I have traversed one or another of its many walks nearly every day of my life.” To her vexation, as she spoke, her voice broke.

  He glanced away, and said abruptly, “Generally, I believe these transitions go rather smoothly—out with the old, and in with the new—but I imagine this will be a very big change for you.”

  “It will, sir, and I dislike change with all my heart.”

  “Do you? Why?”

  “This is my home. I am surrounded here by all the things I know, and the people I love. I have no wish to leave it.”

  “Great joy can be found in all that is familiar,” concurred he, meeting her gaze once more. “Yet, I have discovered there can be even more merit in change. Change often brings unimagined opportunity.”

  “It can also bring great struggle and hardship.”

  “If there is no struggle, Miss Stanhope, there is no progress.
To live in a safe cocoon—to never step outside one’s accustomed boundaries—I believe that is not truly living. It is stagnation.”

  “Stagnation?” cried Rebecca. “How dare you call my life here stagnation! It has been very full and happy!”

  “That was not my intention, Miss Stanhope. I am sorry if I offended you, and sorry you are obliged to give up your home.”

  “If you are truly sorry, sir, then I beg of you: ask your uncle to reconsider, and allow my father to remain in his position.”

  “My uncle is doing what he believes is best for the community. Even his daughter must agree, that a clergyman ought to acknowledge and remove himself, if he is discovered to be unfit for service.”

  “Unfit? You malign my father unjustly, sir! If any one is unfit, I believe it is you, Mr. Clifton. A single year as curate is hardly experience enough to qualify you as rector of this parish.”

  He coloured slightly. “Forgive me, I have said too much. Pray accept my best wishes for your and your father’s health and happiness. Good day.” Replacing his hat on his head, Mr. Clifton turned and walked away.

  Greatly vexed, Rebecca returned to the house, where she passed the rest of the afternoon and evening packing up her few remaining possessions, while mentally disparaging the new rector.

  Her distress increased the next day when, after paying off his debts, Mr. Stanhope announced that he had turned over the preponderance of the proceeds of the sale of their furniture and possessions, to Sir Percival and the churchwarden, to replace the lost funds for the church bells. They were, Rebecca reflected miserably, now nearly penniless; and if not for the goodness of Sarah and her husband, they would be homeless as well.

  Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope spent their final days in the area calling on the poor cottagers and farmers’ wives and their children, with whom they’d become close these many years, to say good-bye. By now, every one in the parish knew why Mr. Stanhope was leaving; yet in not a single household were they received with recrimination or cold civility—only with sympathy and profound regret on their departure.