by Joan Aiken
“Stop a minute, stop a minute, pray, Mr Gillender!” cried Jane, attempting in vain to stem this torrent of eloquence. “There are two words needed to such a bargain and mine has not been given — nor indeed ever will it —”
“Oh, hang it all, Miss Jane! I know it is the fashion for some young ladies to be pishing and pshawing when they receive a declaration. Charlotte Selsea would not have me for she has set her sights on nabbing a title (though I’d have thought the name Gillender good enough for anybody; and all the world knows that Sir Adam took the name of Selsea when he came into the baronetcy; it was plain Jones before, and that is why Lady S keeps him in the closet as much as may be, for he ain’t too presentable for public show); but, be that as it may, Miss Jane, I’m a plain blunt fellow, as you can see, wooing ain’t my strong point. But I did think that a girl of such downright sense as yours would not descend to such a paltry havering. Consider that part despatched, say I — and let us get to brass tacks. What is to keep us from a speedy entry into the married state? Not a thing, that I know of —”
“Then, sir, you are greatly mistaken,” said Jane with energy. “I have no mind to marry at present, and I certainly never entertained the least notion of marrying you. You will do me the courtesy of abandoning this subject immediately and never alluding to it again.”
“Oh, deuce take it, Miss Jane! How can you snub a fellow so? Come now: I know a gal of your looks and spirit will not be teasing a poor fellow for very long; it ain’t in nature for you to be so hard-hearted.”
“Indeed it is, Mr Gillender! I have not the least wish or intention of marrying you, and I beg that you will put the notion out of your head, at once and entirely. Nor can I conceive why you should ever have imagined that we think alike upon any topic: so far as my observation has gone I should say that our tastes were utterly dissimilar.”
Having thus administered what she hoped would serve as a crushing and final set-down, Jane walked ahead at a rapid pace to catch up with Rachel and her cousins; but Mr Gillender accompanied her, apparently not a whit discouraged, and cheerfully promising to “speak to the old gentleman before the day was out.”
Not choosing to pay him the compliment of rational remonstrance any more, for she began to be convinced that he was simple in his wits, Jane gladly joined the others, who had paused to admire the prowess of a group of fishing vessels that took advantage of a favouring shift of wind to put out from harbour, despite the high seas.
“Lord! Don’t they bounce, though!” cried Robert. “I tell you, those sailors are fine fellows to venture out in such cockleshell craft. I say — what a prime lark it would be to hire one of those vessels and enjoy a day on the water! We could sail to Lyme, or to Poole — how about it, ladies? Are you game for such a spree?”
Charlotte cried out upon her brother that it was by far too stormy, they should all be drowned for sure, and very likely become most villainously ill besides.
“Oh, lord! I don’t mean today; but one of these days, tomorrow perhaps, or Thursday; the wind will soon drop, to be sure, and one must find something to do in this dead-alive hole. What do you say, Tom?”
Mr Gillender gave his enthusiastic endorsement to the proposal, and Charlotte then recollecting that the Dixon brothers were reputed to be fine sailors, coming as they did from the coast of Cork, famous for its inlets and estuaries, began to be more interested in the project. “But not for several days; not until the weather had entirely settled.”
Rachel and Jane cast one another glances of dismay; both had hoped that the Selseas might not prolong their visit beyond a couple more nights. But these words seemed to propose a longer period of residence. Neither Rachel nor Jane, with recent memories of a long sea-voyage from the Indies, had the slightest wish for any unnecessary excursion upon the water. But the rest of the party canvassed the suggestion for many minutes and it ended by Robert’s promising to seek out “an old sailor fellow, a capital old tar whom I encountered down by the waterside; he will readily put me in the way of securing a suitable vessel whenever we wish it, within the crack of a whip, I daresay.”
At this moment Mrs Consett joined them, full of news; she had encountered an acquaintance from Harvey’s Library who told her that poor Mr Dixon the younger was taken shockingly unwell, having contracted a severe chill after yesterday’s misadventures. “His poor mother very distressed; but she hopes it will soon pass over.”
“We m-must go round to their house at once and inquire about him!” declared Rachel, much agitated. “Oh, p-poor Mrs Dixon! How sorry she must feel that they ever t-took part in yesterday’s excursion. Come, Jane —”
Jane was very willing, and Charlotte said that she would accompany her cousin. But the gentlemen had other plans: Robert recollected an engagement to go and inspect an excellent little gig which he had thoughts of buying. “For it is such a bore to be stuck here with nothing but hired affairs, or my mother’s old wreck of a carriage, and this is as neat a little rig as one could wish — trunk, sword-case, splashboard, lamps, and the fellow asks only sixty guineas and I daresay I can beat him down to fifty — will you come, Tom?”
Mr Gillender went off with him forthwith, any recollection of his extraordinary proposal to Jane having, apparently, been banished from his head by this new interest. Jane, much relieved, hoped that she would hear no more of the matter.
The ladies turned towards the old town. But Charlotte and Mrs Consett proceeded in a very dawdling manner, stopping at every corner to speak to acquaintances or look into the shop windows that contained articles of wear. Rachel, many yards ahead with Jane, found the opportunity to say to her friend, with strong indignation:
“Jane, d-do you know why Charlotte p-persuaded Matt to walk with her such a very long way yesterday? It was b-because, she said, she was ‘s-screwing him up to the point of m-making an offer!’ Is not that abominable?” Her voice shook with outrage; there were tears in her eyes.
Jane, too, felt a grievous pang: part anger, part pure sorrow. That Matt, so good, so brilliant, sincere, candid, full of courage and poetry, should be subjugated, like any common man, by the wiles of such a shoddy little intrigueuse was pitiful indeed.
“And — and did he then make the offer — did Charlotte say?” Jane’s voice was not quite steady.
“No — thank heavens! Charlotte was very cross — laughably so, if it had not been such an odious matter — Frank Churchill came hallooing after them, she said, just before she had wound him up to the sticking-point!”
“But I suppose,” said Jane despondently, “there is nothing to prevent his coming back to that point at some future time.”
“Charlotte will certainly not wish to be defrauded of her sixteenth offer. She will do her utmost to procure another opportunity. But what a s-strange creature she is, Jane! I said to her, ‘Charlotte, what is the p-pleasure, what s-satisfaction can you find in extracting offers from m-men that you have no intention of accepting?’ And she answered, ‘Oh, lord, my dear creature, what else is there to t-talk to men about — unless they are m-making love? Everything else about them is so d-devilish d-dull!’ and then she added, ‘B-But, as to that, I have a very good m-mind to accept Matt Dixon. After all, he will be Lord K-Kilfinane by and by. Lady Kilfinane sounds well enough!’ And, Jane, she meant it! Oh, Jane — what sh-shall I d-do if Charlotte marries Matt?”
The unmistakable note of anguish and desolation in Rachel’s voice was like a cold hand clutched about Jane’s heart. She stopped and looked at her friend. The two tears that stood in Rachel’s eyes came out and rolled down her pale cheeks.
“Oh, Rachel! Oh, my dear girl!”
“I love him,” Rachel said simply. “I think I always have. And I always shall.”
“Then,” said Jane, with an assumed brisk cheerfulness which she was very far from feeling, “we must place all our hopes on the fact that Matt is far too sensible a creature to be taken-in by Charlotte for long. It can be no more with him than a mere temporary infatuation.”
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bsp; “Yes,” said Rachel forlornly, “but if he offers and she accepts him while he is s-still infatuated, then he is lost indeed! For she will never let him go; and Matt is by far too honourable to ask for his release.”
Jane’s silence acknowledged that this must be so.
The two girls stood for many minutes by the waterside, oblivious to the cries of oysterwomen and the rattle of rowlocks, watching the ferryboat slowly pull towards them, while Jane, mindless of the lively scene before her, admitted in the privacy of her own heart the wretched fact that now, for the first time in their lives, Rachel’s interest and her own were in conflict.
For she, too, loved Matt Dixon. The morning’s disclosures had made this all too plain to her: first, her astonished, instantaneous rejection of the preposterous Mr Gillender — and then the double pang of anguish with which she had received the news of Matt’s interrupted offer to Charlotte and Rachel’s misery about it.
So! Jane told herself angrily. You are in a fine fix, and must scold yourself out of it as best you can. For it seems horridly probable that Matt may fall prey to Charlotte’s wiles; and — should he have the luck to escape Charlotte — if, by any miraculous chance, he were to turn his attentions in your direction, how could your conscience ever allow you to bring about the total ruin of Rachel’s hopes?
There was not the least prospect that some other suitor might come and oust the image of Matt from Rachel’s heart; Jane knew this by instinct. Rachel was faithful; where she loved once, she would love for ever. Secret hopes which had been forming in Jane’s mind regarding the relations between Rachel and Frank Churchill were now entirely scotched. And, Jane could not help admitting to herself, Rachel and Matt would be very well suited. If only …
Just in time, Charlotte and Mrs Consett came hastening up, as the ferryboat nudged its lip against the quayside step; and all four ladies were rowed across the harbour to Trinity Road. There Mrs Dixon received Rachel and Jane very kindly, but her demeanour towards Charlotte was decidedly uncordial; either maternal instinct or Sam’s own unguarded revelations had evidently informed her as to Charlotte’s selfish behaviour on the return journey yesterday. And she had no cheerful news for the inquirers: the surgeon had called twice, last night and again this morning — a very excellent man, thank heaven, one who had even been honoured by attendance on His Majesty while resident in Weymouth — but he detected a putrid tendency in the disorder; Sam was heavy, restless, and feverish, his pulse low and rapid; at times he was alarmingly active but somewhat disordered in mind; at others he fell into a heavy stupor. No, he most certainly could not be visited, said Mrs Dixon — coldly answering a question of Charlotte’s — his brother was sitting with him and must be held excused from coming down; Matt was the only one who, by brotherly attachment and sheer force of personality, could oblige the patient to keep quiet when he rambled and threw himself about.
“Oh, d-dear ma’am, I am so v-very sorry,” Rachel said miserably. “If only we had not g-gone on that unlucky excursion. I wish a th-thousand thousand times that we had never set out!”
“Do not be blaming yourself too severely, my dear; I was in equal fault,” her hostess assured her sadly. “I rode along too, and enjoyed myself as much as any of you young ones. And we must hope the dear boy will soon throw it off.”
“Is there anything that we can bring — anything that we can do for you?” eagerly inquired Jane.
No, the neighbours had all been very kind, exceptionally kind; there was really nothing at present. If there should be, she would be sure to let them know. And pray give her love to dear Colonel and Mrs Campbell.
The latter would be so very sorry to hear about poor Mr Sam, Mrs Consett said, and the party then took their leave, for Mrs Dixon’s restless eye, continually roving to the stair, reminded them that she was on tenterhooks to be with her son.
“Well!” said Charlotte rather peevishly, when they were all out on the harbour-front once more. “Brotherly affection is all very fine, but I think Matt Dixon might just as well have stepped downstairs to see us! I am sure Robert would have done as much if I had been abed.”
Nobody disputed this statement.
“It is all very provoking,” continued Charlotte, “for now I daresay Matt will, through some exaggerated notions of family duty, feel obliged to keep close to the sickroom — where, as a man, he cannot be of any real use — just when we require his company for our water-party, and — and a hundred other things. It is most vexatious. I have no patience with such selfishness.”
And she continued fulminating in this manner as they re-crossed the harbour, despite the remonstrances of Mrs Consett, who observed that such an example of brotherly devotion was truly Christian; nobody could expect Mr Matt Dixon to form one of a party of pleasure while his brother was seriously unwell; and, she further-more inquired, what was this projected water-party, and was Miss Selsea quite sure that Lady Selsea knew and approved of it?
“Oh, stuff!” cried Charlotte, as the ferryboat again reached the northern jetty, “why should Mamma raise any objection? It is but to put out for a few hours in one of the fisher-people’s boats — not the least harm in the world. Here are my brother Robert and Mr Gillender, ma’am, who will tell you the same.”
For indeed the two young gentlemen were once again to be observed, though whether waiting for the ladies or merely lounging about among the other idlers on the quay, it might be hard to determine.
It seemed that the excellent little gig had turned out a complete disappointment: “No such thing, a most paltry little turn-out, not a sound strip of metal nor plank of wood in the whole construction, rickety as an oysterwife’s basket, fit only to be driven by some old parson; and, to make matters worst of all, the miserly curmudgeon would not reduce his price of sixty guineas by a single penny. Not a penny, I assure you! though I told him any fool could see it was ready to fall apart if it were driven above five mile an hour.”
The young men, therefore, who had planned a trip to Corfe Castle in the new acquisition, were at a loose end, and glad to rejoin the females. It was proposed that they should all walk to the wishing-well at Upwey. Frank Churchill, who appeared at that moment, having escorted his aunt to the hot bath and back to her residence, was enthusiastic for this project. “He had heard so much about the wishing well and had so many urgent wishes, he could not wait to try its efficacy.” Poor Mrs Consett appeared far less happy at the prospect of a two-mile walk, but, luckily for her, Lady Selsea was now to be seen taking the air in a donkey-carriage; she agreed to join the young people and offered to take Mrs Consett up into her equipage, while her children and their friends walked alongside.
Mr Gillender again seized the chance of walking by Jane, who, to deter him from any repetition of his unwelcome offer, immediately began to tell him about poor Sam Dixon’s serious condition.
He did not appear to be much moved by the tale, but wagged his head solemnly and said that Sam Dixon was a sad, sickly sort of fellow; the present malady would doubtless carry him off.
“Indeed, I hope not!” said Jane, shocked at such a callous view.
“And, as for the elder brother, I think nothing of him. At Cambridge they said he was brilliant, but I could not see it. You never found him at cock-fighting or any manly kind of sport. True, he lost a great deal at the races — I heard he was shockingly dipped there —”
“What?” cried Jane, who could hardly believe her ears.
“Oh, to be sure, I believe he still owes Bob Selsea some hundreds. And that ain’t gentlemanly, you know; a fellow should pay his debts, even if it means borrowing from somebody else —”
Jane, to escape this terribly unwelcome communication, stepped away from Mr Gillender. Rachel was walking with Charlotte and Frank Churchill; she seemed content enough. To keep Mr Gillender at a distance, Jane positioned herself by the two ladies in the donkey-carriage, where she could listen to their desultory conversation or not as she pleased; they paid less heed to her than they might to a floating se
agull.
She had much to occupy her mind. Anxieties about Sam Dixon and about Rachel — and now this new one about Matt — there played an almost equal part.
Jane had talked on several occasions with Mrs Dixon and was party to that lady’s well-grounded fears about her delicate younger son; this present crisis must be a severe test of his frail constitution. And then, Rachel! For some time it had seemed to Jane happily possible that the friendship between Sam and Rachel, comfortable, teasing, brotherly, sisterly, might grow to something deeper and more enduring. But one instant, listening to the tones in Rachel’s voice as she spoke of Matt, had been enough to abolish that hope at a stroke.
Lastly, with a kind of wry despair, Jane considered her own shattered hopes. As a child — and, indeed, into her teens — she had nourished a romantic, impossible vision of Mr Knightley leading her to the altar. She had known this to be impossible, with her sober, workaday mind, and yet her inner fantasizing self persisted in spinning stories of how Mr Knightley rescued her from some predicament: found her on Donwell Common with a sprained ankle; defended her from hostile gypsies; snatched her from the path of a runaway horse; and then proceeded to confess his secret but unquenchable passion, in words as well-chosen as they were brief, sincere, and heartfelt …
