The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (34 page)

A week passed away. Rebecca walked with Miss Clifton and Miss Russell, visited the shops and the pump-room with the Newgates, and attended a concert with her father; but there was no further word from Mr. Clifton.

On the eighth day after Mr. Clifton’s departure, just as Rebecca was leaving the house to go walking on her own, Miss Clifton hurried up the pavement to meet her, a distressed expression on her countenance. After they exchanged greetings, Miss Clifton said,

“We are to leave tomorrow. Papa is fed up with Bath, and wants to go home at once.”

“Oh! I shall miss you.”

“I shall miss you, as well.”

Her friend looked so anxious, that Rebecca hoped to
calm her by saying, “You will be happy to be home, I am sure, and we can write to each other.”

“Yes, of course. But—it is not only our leaving, that—” Miss Clifton broke off, and with increasing disquiet exclaimed, “Forgive me, Miss Stanhope. I am expected back at the house. I have come on an errand of some urgency.—I received a letter this morning from Philip. He sends information with regard to—I debated whether or not I ought to—but—Philip said you would wish to know.”

“What is it?” asked Rebecca, growing alarmed. “Does the information pertain to me and my father?”

Miss Clifton nodded, and, unable to meet Rebecca’s gaze, she pulled a letter from her reticule and gave it to her. “It is all in here. You may keep the letter, or destroy it if you wish. I am very, very sorry.” Thrusting another small note into Rebecca’s hand, Miss Clifton added, “I have written down my direction. I hope we
will
correspond. God bless you.” She then turned and fled down the street.

Greatly worried and perplexed, Rebecca ran back into the house and up to her room, to read the letter in privacy.

Elm Grove

Rebecca stared at the page in her hands, horrified. Her stomach clenched, her mind reeled, and she felt truly ill. The information which Mr. Clifton imparted seemed impossible to believe—and yet it was so! Previously, she had been able to hold her head high despite their difficulties, believing her father to be the innocent victim of a crime; but
now that she knew his culpability, she felt deeply ashamed, sick at heart, and angry.

It was bad enough that Mr. Stanhope had gambled with money which did not belong to him; but far worse, in her mind, was that he was guilty of the grossest falsehoods. He had
lied
about it to her, to Sir Percival, to every one! How could he do it? Rebecca had not thought it in his character to be so deceitful! No longer could she blame Sir Percival for insisting on her father’s removal from his position; indeed, if the truth were known by the parishioners of Elm Grove as to Mr. Stanhope’s behaviour that night, they would have most likely demanded his resignation, just as Sir Percival insisted.

For a long moment, Rebecca sat frozen with fury and indecision. Should she confront her father with what she knew? She wanted to lash out at him, to tell him how much his actions hurt her, and that he had let her down. However, upon re-reading Mr. Clifton’s line about her father still being a good man, Rebecca felt all the kindness behind the sentiment, and began to soften. Despite her father’s terrible lack of judgment that fateful night, despite his falsehoods in
this
instance, she acknowledged to herself that he
was
and always had been a good man. And he had certainly paid heavily for his mistake. He had lost his home and livelihood, and used the proceeds of all his worldly goods to pay back the debt. Clearly, Mr. Stanhope was as mortified as she by what he had done; so mortified that he could not bring himself to admit the truth even to
her
. With a sigh, Rebecca’s heart went out to him. Even knowing that it was his misdeed which caused all their subsequent misfortunes, she still loved him; she would always love him. She pitied him, and she forgave him.

Crossing to the hearth, Rebecca tossed the letter into the fire and poked it until it burned down to ash. She would not—could not—bear for her father to know that she knew.

Two days passed away, and they were very long and melancholy. With Miss Clifton gone, Rebecca had no close friends left in Bath. Mrs. Newgate was a generous and cheerful woman, but she was not some one to whom Rebecca could feel comfortable sharing her troubles, particularly on
this
subject. She considered writing to her sister and unburdening her heart, but it did not seem fair to trouble Sarah with such distressing news by letter;—indeed, it was perhaps better to pretend that
she
had never heard this report, and allow Sarah and Charles, at least, to continue to think well of her father. The fewer people who were privy to this mortifying information, Rebecca decided, the better. She felt particular regret that Mr. Clifton had been the one to find it out, for she had come to regard him as a friend. Now that he possessed this knowledge about her father, she thought bitterly, she would no doubt never hear from Mr. Clifton again.

The soiree they attended that night with the Newgates proved even more tedious than usual, the conversation empty and meaningless. As Rebecca walked the streets of Bath, the delights of the city no longer held any appeal for her. All she observed around her was noise, congestion, and confusion. How, Rebecca wondered, was it possible to feel so entirely alone, in a room—nay, a city—so full of people? She walked out into the country-side to escape, and breathed in its beauties with great longing. She thought of home; but then remembered that she had no home.

Mrs. Newgate invited her out shopping the next morning, but as it was very wet, Rebecca stayed in and played
backgammon with her father. She tried to appear as usual, but he sensed her low spirits, and asked more than once if she was ill. She found herself continually watching him and silently questioning his every statement. Was he the man she had always imagined him to be? Could she ever trust him again? Later, when he went to get the money for tickets to that evening’s ball, he shielded his pocketbook from her view and appeared hesitant. Concerned, she said,

“Do not we have the money, papa? It is not important that we go.”

“But it is important—we
should
go,” replied he, and he gave her the money; but she thought she caught hidden worry behind his eyes.

Although Rebecca danced every dance that night, for the first time since coming to Bath, she did not enjoy a single one of them. Outwardly, their circumstances remained unchanged—but inwardly, she felt as if every thing were different. How many of these men would be interested in her, she wondered, were they privy to the shame which her father had brought down upon their family? As far as she could determine, Mr. and Mrs. Newgate had said nothing of her father’s history or financial circumstances to any one, but had represented Mr. Stanhope as a respectable clergyman, newly retired. The Newgates’ acquaintances at Bath, who had so graciously included Rebecca and her father at their parties and such—how many of them would continue the association, were they to learn the truth?

After breakfast the following morning, when Mr. Stanhope accompanied the Newgates on their daily pilgrimage to the pump-room, Rebecca stayed in, explaining that she preferred to read. She was alone in the drawing-room, and had
just picked up her book, when she heard the sound of the door-bell, followed moments later by the maid’s announcement that a gentleman had come to see her.

Rebecca rose to greet her visitor, her spirits a little fluttered, for she could not imagine what gentleman of her acquaintance would come to call. Could it be one of the young men with whom she had danced the night before, come to enquire after her? This, however, was not the case.

To her utter astonishment, the man who walked into the room was Dr. Jack Watkins.

VOLUME THREE

C
HAPTER
I

Dr. Jack Watkins strode across the drawing-room and stopped a few feet away, whereupon he removed his hat with a gentlemanly bow. As he straightened, the eyes which met hers were fraught with emotion. “Good morning, Miss Stanhope.”

Rebecca was so surprised, that she was momentarily robbed of the power of speech. To see him standing before her, so unexpectedly, after so many weeks of thinking of him, without hearing a single word! It was incredible! Her heart pounded as she gathered her wits; she hardly knew what she said, but thought it might have been, “Dr. Watkins—how very nice to see you.”

“I trust you are in good health?”

“I am, sir. And you?”

“I am well.” He spoke quickly, his manner agitated. “Pray, forgive me for intruding on you like this. I only arrived in town last night. I suppose I should have first sent a note to your father, but—” Then, as if an afterthought: “He is well, I hope? Your father?”

“Yes, thank you. He is out with his cousin. Will you sit down, sir?” She motioned to a nearby chair. They both sat. He glanced at the carpet, then at her, as if struggling for words. She broke the silence. “How did you know where to find me? From the book at the pump-room?”

“Your sister gave me the direction.”

“Oh. Have you been in London these past weeks?”

“I have.”

“I hope that all went as you planned, with regard to the establishment of your medical practice?”

“It—I did not—” With an impatient sigh, he leapt from his chair and walked about the room in an anxious manner. At length, he returned to stand before her, and said with great feeling, “Miss Stanhope: I cannot bear to waste time on idle chatter. I have come to Bath particularly because I have something to say to you. Pray permit me to express it.”

Rebecca waited in silence, and was audience to the following:

“It was with the deepest regret that I parted from your company at Medford, Miss Stanhope, with no verbal articulation of my feelings, and no formal connection between us. I thought—I truly believed—that once I turned my attentions to my new practice, I should become too busy for an attachment of any kind, and that I must forget you; but I cannot. All these weeks that I have been in town, I have thought of nothing but you. No longer can I deny those feelings which began from
the moment of our first acquaintance, and have grown with every encounter since. I love you, Miss Stanhope. Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?”

Rebecca sat mute before him, her thoughts in a tumult, as she struggled to take in this extraordinary speech. She was amazed—stunned—astonished! She knew that she ought to be thrilled and grateful. Was not this the very moment she had once dreamt of? Every thing she and Sarah had once surmised was true: Dr. Watkins
did
love her. He wanted her to be his wife!

To her surprise, however, her heart did not flutter with excitement as it used to do, when she was in his company. Indeed, an unexpected confusion had descended upon her the moment of his arrival, and had only increased when he began to speak. She was now overcome by a strange, frozen feeling, which she could not account for. He stood waiting for her answer with anxious expectancy. A blush rose to her cheeks, and she found that she did not know how to reply. At last she stood and said,