The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  She was now able to make known certain circumstances of which she had heretofore been silent, including the malicious rumour which had driven them from Bath, and the story of her performance at the concert, which had begun with such promise, and ended in humiliating ruin. She deliberately made no mention of Dr. Jack Watkins’s secret relationship with Miss Davenport, nor did she communicate her belief that he was the source of that unfortunate rumour. She did, however, admit that he had proposed, and she had turned him down, a disclosure which astonished her sister exceedingly, and seemed to particularly interest Mr. Clifton. Rebecca only said that she had her reasons for refusing the doctor, which she did not care to discuss.

  That night, they all took turns sitting up with Mr. Stanhope. By morning, although still too weak for conversation, he was so much recovered, as to instill in all assembled every confidence that he would soon be entirely well again. By evening, he was sitting up in bed and able to consume some broth, and in such good spirits that Mr. Clifton was given an audience. Upon hearing all the news which the rector imparted, Mr. Stanhope was at first too astonished and overwhelmed to speak; then, like his daughter, he shed tears of joy, and could not find enough words to express his thanks.

  The next day, Mr. Clifton was obliged to return to his parish. As he took his leave, he assured Rebecca and her father that the rectory would be ready for their occupation at any hour at which they should arrive. He would remove to one of the smaller bedrooms, and continue to conduct his duties, until such time as Mr. Stanhope was fully able to take over again. As Rebecca said good-bye, her heart was full; she could not help but feel again how very much they owed to the rector, and what a good, kind, and thoughtful man he was.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Mr. Stanhope’s improvement proceeded so smoothly that within three days, he had regained the greater part of his strength. Sarah and Charles, encouraged by his progress, announced their intention to return to Medford. Rebecca deemed it best to stay on a few days more, until her father could withstand the rigours of a journey. On the day of separation, they parted with all the affection and remorse of a family who are truly attached, with promises on Rebecca’s side to provide regular reports as to Mr. Stanhope’s condition, and Sarah and Charles promising to visit at Christmas.

  It was not long before the patient was quite well again. As Mr. Clifton had generously insisted on paying for their transport, they were able to travel in comfort. For Rebecca, it was a triumphant and joyful crossing. For so many months, she had seen her father’s constant suffering, and had deeply felt his anguish as well as her own. Now, to observe the gladness in her father’s eyes, and the new-found calmness of his spirits, was immensely gratifying. As they entered their own neighbourhood, every house, farm, and field brought some particular and happy memory, and Rebecca could barely restrain her joy. Her first sight of the rectory—every aspect of it so sweet and familiar, and so dearly missed—induced happy tears; and as the carriage drew up and she assisted her father to alight, Martha, Eliza, and Mr. Gower came rushing out with exclamations of delight. Embraces were exchanged along with happy chatter; then Mr. Clifton appeared with a bow.

  “Welcome home,” said he quietly.

  Rebecca was so glad to see him, she could not contain her smile. She and Mr. Clifton helped the old gentleman inside the house, and worked together to settle him comfortably in his favourite chair by the hearth. Only when these duties were completed, did Rebecca pause to look around her, and take in her surroundings.

  She found, to her satisfaction, that every thing was very much as they had left it. When her eyes fell on the one addition—a brand-new pianoforte which sat in the same spot where her own, old instrument had stood before it was carted out the door by the removers—she exclaimed with pleasure.

  “What a beautiful pianoforte, Mr. Clifton. Do you play?”

  “I do not,” admitted he.

  She was about to ask why he had bought the instrument, when she realised, from the look on his face as he gazed at her, that he had purchased it for her. “Mr. Clifton! Can it be?—surely you did not—but—oh!”

  “You said you used to practise every morning. I hoped to make it possible for you to continue that enjoyment.”

  Rebecca, at first too thrilled for words, sat down and began to play. The instrument was a good one, and the music she produced filled the room with its thrilling and vibrant sound. When Rebecca made her gratitude known to him, she sensed, from Mr. Clifton’s expression, that he had gained as much pleasure from the giving, as she had in the receiving.

  She found to her delight that her father’s library was intact, and in even better condition than they had left it, for every beloved book remained on the shelves, and many of the leather volumes had been carefully waxed and polished to preserve their binding. After a walk on her own through the house and gardens, to reacquaint herself with every part of the property which was so well-known and dear, and so dearly missed, Rebecca returned to find dinner waiting.

  A fine meal was served in honour of the Stanhopes’ return, Mr. Clifton making a congenial third party at the table, and informing them of all that had gone on in the parish during their absence. “There were five new students at the Sunday School.—He had officiated at two funerals and three christenings.—Jane Repton and Thomas Dudley had posted banns, and were to be wed on Sunday.—Their barn door had blown open during a storm, and so terrified the chickens, that they had nearly fled the county, and the cow had broken through a fence and disappeared.—After a long search, he had discovered the chickens in Mr. Coulthard’s yard, and the cow knee-deep in mud down by the river.”—Several of the stories were described in so comical and endearing a manner, as to induce tears of laughter in the listeners.

  Afterwards, they removed to the parlour, where they continued talking for several hours over tea.

  “You seem to have handled every thing very well in my absence,” observed Mr. Stanhope.

  “I did my best, sir; but I know the congregation will be extremely pleased to have you back.”

  “Did you always intend to be a clergyman, Mr. Clifton?” inquired Mr. Stanhope.

  “From the time I was a boy, that was always my ambition. My parents, however, were not at all keen on the idea, for the longest time.”

  “Why not?” asked Rebecca.

  “They saw it as an underpaid and undervalued profession. To them, it meant spending my life in some tiny, isolated village, cut off from the world half the year by muddy roads and floods, without the congenial companionship of any other educated family. This was not their idea of my future. They had more exalted plans for me. They wanted glory and excitement. They wanted me to go into the army.”

  “The army?” repeated Rebecca. So accustomed was she to thinking of Mr. Clifton as a minister, she had difficulty imagining him in any other role.

  “You may well sound surprised. It would not have been a good fit. But for most of my life, they were so insistent on this point, that it was my expectation as well. Then I saw my brother go off to Oxford, and I envied him. Not his position in life—I was very content to make my own way in the world, on my own merit—I envied him only the advantage of higher education which was afforded by family tradition to the eldest son.”

  “How well I understand you,” said Rebecca, who envied that very education herself.

  “Learning is like a hunger for me,” continued Mr. Clifton. “The world is such a vast and fascinating place. A lifetime is not long enough to understand and explore its many wonders. I told my father that I wanted to attend university, but he protested that it was an unnecessary expense—what did an army officer need with reading Greek and Latin, and science and the classics?”

  Rebecca nodded with compassion, for the first time understanding how this might have contributed to Mr. Clifton’s moodiness and quiet reserve while growing up.

  “I wanted to make my mother and father happy, so I was determined to go along with their desires.”

  “What change
d your mind?” asked Mr. Stanhope.

  “My father was about to buy a commission for me. While on holiday that summer, I became acquainted with two men who were serving in a nearby regiment, and saw what their lives were like.—They were itinerant, often involved in the lowest, most immoral, and boisterous kinds of activities, and constantly joking about war and their expectations of the glories of battle. I knew that this was not for me. I informed my mother and father that I was resolved to becoming ordained, and if they would not pay for my education, I would find some one else who would. Eventually, they came round to the idea.”

  “Your first curacy, before you came to Elm Grove—was it a fulfilling position?” inquired Mr. Stanhope.

  Mr. Clifton’s lips twitched in the effort to hold back a smile. “It fulfilled my parents’ every nightmare. It was the tiniest, most provincial backwater imaginable, and the pay was very low. But I liked the people for their honesty and simplicity, and I quite enjoyed the work—just as I enjoyed my time here.”

  “Have you found another benefice?” asked Rebecca.

  “No, not yet. I will be sorry to leave Elm Grove, but—” (smiling at Mr. Stanhope)—“happy in the knowledge that I leave it in the very best of hands.”

  “What would you say to staying, Mr. Clifton?” asked Mr. Stanhope.

  “Sir?”

  “I could not bear to see you leave without the guarantee of new employment. I am not entirely recovered from my indisposition, and another pair of hands would be a welcome addition. If you like, you may remain as curate and assist me for as long as it takes, until such time as you find another appointment.”

  Mr. Clifton was surprised and grateful. “Thank you, sir. I accept with pleasure.”

  The two men shook hands. Rebecca felt all the happiness of the moment, and fairly glowed with pleasure at the knowledge that Mr. Clifton would be staying on.

  The next few days were very busy, with members of the community coming to call, to welcome back their rector and his daughter, and to express their good wishes. One of the first visitors was Sir Percival, who came with his hat in hand, seemingly very ashamed, and offering his most sincere apologies for the events which had transpired. He returned all the money Mr. Stanhope had given him, which had been meant to replace the stolen funds. Furthermore, he granted him ten acres of farmland to add to his living. Mr. Stanhope readily forgave his patron, and their friendship resumed as it had been before, with one exception: the rector had so lost his taste for betting of any sort, that he could no longer stomach the notion of any game of cards other than Whist, Cribbage, Casino, and Quadrille.

  Rebecca had not been home a week when a letter arrived from Sarah, which contained astonishing information.

  Medford Vicarage

  My dearest Rebecca,

  I have such news! You will hardly believe me when I relate what has just transpired. You may remember that Mrs. Harcourt has been ill for some weeks. In spite of Dr. Samuel Watkins’s hopeful prognosis, two days ago she took a sudden turn for the worse. A single day at most, he averred, remained until her soul would pass from this earthly plane. Charles and I called to say a tearful good-bye—she was indeed gravely ill, too weak to utter more than a few brief, sweet words. Miss Davenport and Dr. Jack Watkins appeared beside themselves with grief. We returned home, presuming that to be the last time we should ever see dear Mrs. Harcourt. But matters have taken a most unexpected turn.

  It has only just come to our attention (the Miss Wabshaws came expressly to inform us, having heard it from Mrs. Harcourt herself) that later that same afternoon, while the old lady was in a kind of stupour, and barely cognisant of what was taking place around her, Miss Davenport and Dr. Jack Watkins took up the vigil at her bedside. Apparently the two of them, believing her to be insensible, began chatting openly and freely, and in their discussion recklessly revealed a relationship which, until that time, had been unknown to any one but themselves. For nearly a year, it seems, they have had a secret understanding!—and Miss Davenport all that time promised to Mr. Mountague—it is indeed shocking! What is all the more astounding, is that Dr. Watkins thought so little of their attachment, as would make him feel free to make an offer to you! What manner of man is he? Clearly I was mistaken in my assessment of him. And yet, there is some satisfaction in the knowledge that we did not entirely imagine his regard for you. But I digress.

  Just imagine it: Mrs. Harcourt was lying at death’s very door, and in her weakened condition, heard her beloved niece discussing her intent to marry a man of whom she could never approve; but worse—far worse—the pair was actually exulting in her imminent demise, and talking of their future plans to redecorate her house and spend her money! Overhearing this seemed to be the tonic which Mrs. Harcourt required, for it brought her round with a vengeance. She opened her eyes, and exclaimed, “Get out, the two of you! Get out of my sight this instant!” They fled the room. Dr. Watkins senior was summoned. He announced that it was a miracle. Half an hour later, Mrs. Harcourt was sitting up in bed giving orders, and so improved, that he predicted a full recovery. Her first charge, however, was to tell both Dr. Watkinses that she never wanted to see or hear from either of them again. This troubled me, for Dr. Samuel Watkins, it seemed, had done no wrong, but Mrs. Harcourt insisted that his reputation was tainted by the devilish acts of his son. That same afternoon, she called in her solicitor, rewrote her will, and cast off Miss Davenport for ever for her treachery. She will inherit nothing—not a farthing!

  What, you may ask, of her engagement to Dr. Jack Watkins? We are told that he ended it the moment he heard of her disinheritance, and returned immediately to London. Miss Davenport is now living in the servants’ quarters at Grafton Hall, in a state of the most extreme anguish, while Mrs. Harcourt’s solicitor endeavours to secure her a position as a governess. She has apparently written to her uncle Clifton and uncle Mountague, begging them to take her in; but I sincerely doubt they will take pity on her. Is not all this too wonderful to believe?

  I tell myself that I ought to feel sorry for Miss Davenport, and in some corner of my heart I do; but in truth I believe that she deserves her fate. As for Dr. Watkins, I am exceedingly disappointed. You are a much better evaluator of character than I; you shewed excellent judgment when you turned down his offer. I am sure I have shocked you with these revelations, but trust that you will recover as quickly as did the good Mrs. Harcourt. All my love to you and my father, and please extend my most sincere good wishes to Mr. Clifton.

  Your affectionate sister,

  Sarah Morris

  Even Rebecca’s prior knowledge of the pair’s secret understanding could not prepare her for the surprise of this intelligence, which gave rise to such a rush of contradictory feelings, that a full hour’s walk in the garden was required before she could regain a sense of tranquillity. “A governess!” she repeated over and over to herself. Rebecca could think of no worse fate for Amelia.

  She reported the news to her father and Mr. Clifton, who shared her amazement. All were relieved to hear of Mrs. Harcourt’s recovery, and much discussion was given over to a review of the villains’ behaviour, which they agreed was shameless.

  “My heart bleeds for the young lady whom I so recently considered a friend, and with whom I once passed so many happy hours,” said Rebecca, “but when I recall the deceit which lay behind that friend’s every word and expression, the lack of concern she harboured for my feelings, and the despicable manner in which she treated her own aunt, my heart hardens anew.”

  There being no longer any reason to withhold the information, Rebecca admitted that she had learned of the secret liaison earlier; that, after Dr. Watkins proposed to her, he had expressed dissatisfaction with his career choice; and that her refusal may have prompted him to start the unfortunate rumour at Bath.

  Mr. Clifton, disgusted by the doctor’s conduct, admitted that while at Oxford, he had been acquainted with Jack Watkins;—the man had been known as something of a rake. It seemed to Rebecca that, con
sidering every thing, Dr. Watkins had got off rather too easily. Mr. Stanhope reminded her that one’s future was one’s own reward, and in the end, Dr. Watkins was obliged to live with himself.

  The month of December passed away. With great relish, Mr. Stanhope resumed the work he had always loved. There was much to be done in the parish, and Mr. Clifton carried out his duties devotedly, proving to be a great asset to the rector. Rebecca, happy to be home, fell into her former, agreeable routine, practising her music daily, walking, reading, visiting and sewing for the parish poor, and once again teaching several of the village children to read. Christmas came and went, bringing Sarah and Charles and their children for their promised visit. During this time, Mr. Clifton went home to see his own family, and Rebecca found that she missed him very much.

  In January, an unexpected event occurred on the matrimonial front. Sarah wrote to say that Mr. Spangle had wed Miss Cecelia Wabshaw, and she and her twin sister had both moved into Finchhead Downs.

  “For the life of me, I cannot tell you which twin he has married,” Rebecca said to Mr. Clifton, upon reporting the information, “but whoever it is, I believe they are perfectly suited to one another.”

  “I hope, with all my heart,” said he, “that Mr. Spangle will come to think of his new bride as well as he did of his last—and that her sister will make a welcome third.”

  In the same missive, Sarah offered further information as to what had become of Amelia: Mrs. Harcourt had found her a position as a governess in Shropshire, had sent her off with only five guineas and the clothes on her back, and refused to speak to or hear about her ever again.