The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (26 page)

“It is a lovely moon, sir,” said Rebecca, looking rather desperately at the door to the ball-room, through which she expected Dr. Watkins to appear at any moment.

“But, however, let us speak no more of moons, Miss Stanhope. I believe—I feel certain that after our delightful conversation at Finchhead Downs, you can be in no doubt as to the direction in which our next discourse would tend.”

“Sir?” replied she, in some perplexity.

“You expressed admiration for my humble domicile—this did not escape my notice—and I could not agree with you more, for it is indeed a most desirable place. I have there every thing a man could want in terms of money and life’s comforts. My dear Matilda managed our household effortlessly, with a success which even the most skilled housekeeper in the world could never hope to attain. Since her passing,
however, the very air in the house seems changed. It is a solitary, may I say, lonely existence now. My home is very much in need of a woman’s touch, and I have determined that you, Miss Stanhope, are the very woman to fill my departed wife’s shoes.”

Rebecca, in astonishment and incredulity, stared at him, coloured, and struggled for words.

“I realise that there is a disparity in our ages,” continued he, “but, however, I trust you will not see that as an impediment, any more than I find your father’s recent—shall we say—
unfortunate circumstances
, an impediment to
me
. A man, on occasion, is wont to make little errors of judgment, and a good Christian will not allow these small transgressions to blind his opinion to all that is good in a man’s character.”

“Mr. Spangle; I beg you—”

“I appreciate your eagerness,” interrupted he, “but pray allow me to continue, so that when you express your gratitude, you will be apprised of all that which has been offered.” Leaning one hand briefly on the rail in an attitude of forced casualness, he went on, “You shall of course have all of my dear wife’s jewellery at your disposal, and any of her clothes and personal effects which appeal to you—I kept every thing she owned, bonnets and gowns and caps and shawls and shoes and silk stockings and gloves and fans and feathers and combs and reticules and handkerchiefs of every sort, and each item is I assure you of the finest quality. My carriage and four will be at your disposal. One of the smaller parlours will be made available as your sitting-room, and you may refurbish it as you please. I like roast beef every Sunday, and pigeon-pie on Thursdays; but otherwise the menu will be left entirely to your discretion. I think I have said all; I have only to pronounce the formal words which
are required to make my intent complete, and which will pave the way towards that felicitous union, which will bind us together for ever: Miss Stanhope, will you do me the greatest honour which woman can bestow on man, by consenting to be my wife?”

At that instant, Rebecca heard the slight sound of a startled intake of breath; and looking past Mr. Spangle, caught sight of a tall man standing in the shadow of the doorway: Dr. Watkins!

Rebecca’s discomfort and embarrassment were beyond expression. That Dr. Watkins, of all people, should have witnessed this unwelcome offer from a man so clownish—and to-night of all nights! Blushing more furiously, and with barely concealed desperation, she said quickly, “Mr. Spangle, sir, I thank you for your offer. I am honoured by it—”

“A very pretty reply,” interrupted Mr. Spangle, straightening up with a satisfied smile, “and I am equally honoured to receive it—but, however, it occurs to me that I have forgotten to mention three important things: you may have your own mare, and when my pointer Popsy has her litter, you may choose any puppy you like as your very own. Moreover, as soon as our engagement is announced, I shall have your portrait painted, and it will hang directly beside that of the first Mrs. Spangle in the entry hall for all to admire.
Now
I have said all, and may I reiterate that it is with—” This statement never reached its conclusion, for as Mr. Spangle reached out again to lean upon the rail, his hand missed its mark; he lost his footing, and tumbled to the ground.

“Mr. Spangle! Are you injured?” cried Rebecca in alarm.

“Perfectly fine, no bones broken, nothing amiss, no help required.” Recovering himself, and refusing the gloved hand offered to him, he managed with some bustle to return
to his feet, dust himself off, and resume his formerly dignified air. “As I was saying, Miss Stanhope: it is with considerable joy and happiness that I anticipate our alliance, which I trust will take place very soon, you have only to name the day.”

“Sir,” said Rebecca, “you have misunderstood me. When I said that I was honoured by your proposal, I did not wish to imply that I had accepted it. Indeed, I cannot.” She glanced back at the doorway, hoping that she had spoken loud enough for Dr. Watkins to hear, but to her dismay, he had vanished.

“Cannot?” repeated Mr. Spangle in utter astonishment. “But—why ever not?”

Rebecca, who desired nothing more than to get this discourse over with, and to return to the ball-room with as much expediency as possible, said quickly, “There are many reasons, sir. But first and foremost: in your very elegant proposal, although you spoke of money, jewels, clothes, ornaments, puppies, and your requirement for a housekeeper, you never once mentioned
love
. You cannot love me, sir; nor do I love you—and I must love the man I marry.”

“Forgive me, Miss Stanhope—I have perhaps lost the knack of saying just the right and proper thing which would convince a young lady such as yourself of my affections; but, however, pray allow me to assure you that I have only the highest regard for you. Love will surely follow, as it did with the first Mrs. Spangle and myself. We were strangers when we wed—yet as the years unfolded, we became quite inseparable.”

“That may be, sir, and I am very happy that your first marriage was so affectionate and fulfilling. But—may I speak frankly, sir? In truth, I believe you are still in love with
your first wife, and that there is no room in your heart or home for any one new.”

“Believe me, Miss Stanhope, when I tell you that my heart is open, and my intentions could not be more sincere.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir. Again, I thank you, but I cannot consent to be your wife.”

“I see. I see.” His face went quite red. “Well then. Well then—there is nothing left for me to do, but to—to bid you good evening.” He bowed stiffly, and with dignity walked away and disappeared through the ball-room door.

Rebecca waited impatiently a few moments, then flew towards the same entrance. A dance was in progress, the lively music keeping time with the rapid pace of her heart. Anxiously, she surveyed the room, and saw Dr. Watkins dancing at the centre of a line. Her mind was in a tumult. She felt certain he had overheard Mr. Spangle’s proposal—but he had not stayed long enough to hear her refusal. What must he be thinking? Were her chances of hearing from
him
this evening, or any evening, now ruined for ever?

Some distance away, she noticed Amelia Davenport seated alone and eyeing her particularly and with great interest. Her friend beckoned urgently. Greatly vexed, Rebecca moved through the crowd and sank into the chair beside her. Before she could utter a syllable, Miss Davenport cried,

“Well? Did he speak to you?”

“Did who speak to me?”

“Why, Mr. Spangle, of course.”

“How did you know Mr. Spangle meant to speak to me?”

“I saw him follow you outside just now and return forthwith. But we talked about this earlier!”

“Did we?”

“Surely you cannot have forgotten! It is why I loaned you
my gown! I
told
you he meant to make his intentions known to-night, and I have been waiting anxiously for some sign of it. But why are you all nerves and agitation? You must keep me in suspense no longer! Did he ask for your hand?”

Rebecca was incredulous. Had not she been already seated, she should have been unable to support herself. To think that she had so entirely misunderstood her friend’s meaning! That all the time she had believed Miss Davenport to be advocating a proposal from Dr. Watkins, she had in fact been speaking about Mr. Spangle! Rebecca struggled to take a breath. “He did make me an offer.”

“Oh! But how marvelous! How absolutely thrilling! You are engaged!”

“I am not! How can you think so? I turned him down.”

“You turned down Mr. Spangle?” Miss Davenport stared at her.

“Amelia, how can you think I would even consider marrying a man so ridiculous?”

“But—why should not you? You said you liked him!”

“I was talking about some one else.”

“What? You were? Who?”

“It hardly matters now.”

“Rebecca: Mr. Spangle is very rich. He has a beautiful home, a fabulous carriage, and a place in society. You will have more gowns than you can wear!”

“I am most conscious of the merits of wealth, status, and a comfortable home, but I can think of no greater horror than to acquire them deliberately through a marriage which would be a subjugation of all self-respect and feeling. I do not love Mr. Spangle! I never
could
love him. And
he
can only love his first wife, about whom he can never cease to speak, even while proposing to some one else.”

“I admit, he is overly devoted to his first wife, but this should only be a recommendation to you: for one day he will surely regard
you
with that same high esteem.”

“I think not. Whoever marries Mr. Spangle will always rank a distant second in his heart, and will be obliged to listen to a litany of praises about his dear Matilda every single day for the rest of her life. His house is overrun with dogs; he is twice my age; he does not read or think; and he is an idiot.”

“
You
are an idiot to refuse a man of Mr. Spangle’s consequence, particularly in your present circumstances.”

“Perhaps I am. But I would rather be poor all the rest of my days—be a governess or a teacher or a ladies’ companion if necessary—than to tie myself for life to a man I can neither like nor look up to.”

“A governess! A companion! A teacher!” cried Miss Davenport, wrinkling her countenance in disgust. “My heart goes out to such women. I can think of nothing more degrading than to serve in such lowly occupations.”

“Nor can I; except to marry without love.
That
would be a misery I should be unable to countenance. Surely
you
can understand that, Amelia.”

Miss Davenport fell silent as she studied her gloved hands in her lap. At length, she shrugged her shoulders, and said, “My circumstances should not influence yours. I still say you should take him. If you apply to him, and say you have given the matter more thought, and would now look favourably on such a union, I am certain he would still be agreeable to it.”

“I will make no such application.”

Miss Davenport sighed. “Well, that is a shame. But—pray tell, if it was not Mr. Spangle, from whom did you
think
you might receive a proposal to-night?”

Rebecca blushed and covered her face with her hands. “I cannot tell you.”

“Cannot or will not? I will get it out of you sooner or later! Oh! But what is wrong with my aunt?” Miss Davenport’s voice was diffused with sudden worry.

Rebecca uncovered her eyes and, following the direction of her friend’s gaze, saw Dr. Watkins helping an unsteady Mrs. Harcourt to her feet. “Is she ill?”

“It seems so. I must go to her. Will you help me?” asked Miss Davenport.

They stood. Rebecca assisted her friend with her charade, the latter leaning heavily on her and hopping on one foot, as they began their way around the perimeter of the ball-room. Rebecca was soon relieved by both Mr. Mountague and Mr. Clifton, who came rushing to Miss Davenport’s aid. When the group reached the entry hall, they encountered Dr. Watkins and a servant assisting Mrs. Harcourt up the stairs. Dr. Watkins gave them the intelligence that Mrs. Harcourt was adversely affected by the heat in the room, and feeling very faint—she must lie down—they should not worry—he would attend to her.

The party returned to the ball-room, where Miss Davenport was settled in her former position by her two cousins, and Charles asked Rebecca to dance. Feeling it would be rude to refuse her brother, and better to remain occupied, she danced two sets with him, and four more with eager gentlemen she had never met. She did not catch sight of Jack Watkins again until, winded and nearly at the end of her resources, she observed him talking with Mr. Clifton and Mr. Mountague at the front of the room.

Sarah drew Rebecca off the ball-room floor, saying, “Dr.
Watkins assures us that Mrs. Harcourt is sleeping peacefully, and in no danger.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Now that I have you to myself for a moment, you must satisfy me,” said Sarah, with a gleam in her eyes. “Did any thing of import occur this evening? Did you receive an offer?”

Rebecca answered that she did, however, it was not from the gentleman they had anticipated. She had just filled her in on the barest of details, prompting a burst of surprised bewilderment from Sarah, when Charles came up and said that Mr. Stanhope was tired and wished to go home. Accordingly, they made their apologies and withdrew.