The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (10 page)

“Yes,” replied her father, frowning, “and yet I understand his position. There are many who will agree with him. Even though I have never in all my life lost more than six shillings at any game—for you know that is where I stop, say good-night, and go home—there is in general a prejudice against clergymen who gamble. Suspicion will be aroused. But that is not the worst of it; the worst is not
how
the money
came to be lost, but that it is
gone
. I am sure I shall never be forgiven for this. I could never hold my head up in church again. I have no wish to resign, Rebecca; yet it is clearly time for me to go. Which is why I have acquiesced to Sir Percival’s demands.”

“You did not!” cried Rebecca in anguish.

“It is done. Sir Percival insisted that he himself will find a new man to take charge in a timely fashion. I admit, I am very much grieved. I admire the good people of this parish. I love my work here. I will greatly miss it.” With a deep sigh, he continued, “My other regret is on your account, my dear: for in giving up my post, I must also give up this house.”

Rebecca nodded and lapsed into a brief, unhappy silence. To leave the rectory, where she had lived all her life! To leave Elm Grove for ever! It was unthinkable! Tears started in her eyes, and she looked away, not wanting her own suffering to add to her father’s pain. “Surely you will not be out of work for long, papa. You will find a new post somewhere.”

“That is unlikely. Oxford and Cambridge are producing more ordained clergymen to-day than there are positions to fill. Another benifice will be difficult, if not impossible to find, particularly in the circumstances in which I now find myself. How can I apply to a bishop or any other person of influence and power, with my career and reputation so blemished?” His face was so haggard, it seemed that ten years had been added to his age. “No, my dear Rebecca; I am afraid that my clerical career is finished.”

Rebecca hardly knew how to reply; her mind was in a whirl, and she was filled with grief. “Where will we go?” asked she at length, her voice catching.

“I hardly know. I have very little in the way of savings.
Without my regular income, our circumstances will be severely reduced. We will not even have enough to rent a house.”

“Oh!”

He was silent a moment. Then, exerting himself, with resolution he said, “The Lord giveth, and he taketh away. This is indeed a great blow; but he has a plan, which we can not comprehend now, but shall understand in time. Somehow, we shall make do.”

“No!” cried Rebecca, rising and shaking her head. “We shall
not
make do. I will not stand for this, papa. It is not just! I shall speak with Sir Percival myself, and see what can be done.”

Although Mr. Stanhope attempted to dissuade her from a pursuit which he deemed to be fruitless, Rebecca was determined: she would go to Claremont Park the next morning, confront Sir Percival herself, and plead their case.

C
HAPTER
III

Walking briskly, Rebecca covered the distance to the gates of Claremont Park in a quarter of an hour; from there, it was another quarter mile through the park to the manor-house itself. The sun was shining, and birds sang in the trees, but Rebecca was insensible of it, her thoughts entirely consumed by the ill treatment her father had received at the hands of his patron. Mr. Stanhope was normally so self-assured and buoyant. To see him cast down, possessed by worry and doubt, was distressing indeed. She was angry, very angry;
and she meant to make her feelings known to the instrument of all the evil, with a view to changing the dreadful conclusion which had been drawn.

The park lane curved in its downward slope towards the magnificent edifice of brick and stone. Rebecca took her customary shortcut across the great lawn, and was halfway to the residence when she perceived three men approaching from the woods beyond, having just gone fishing. The first was Sir Percival himself, a tall, robust man with thick grey hair, dark, piercing eyes, and a red face.

He was accompanied by his only son and heir, Brook Mountague, a boisterous man of three-and-twenty, who had a predilection for sport, and was well liked by his peers for his friendly disposition and easy, unaffected manners. By no means a scholar, Mr. Mountague had devoted the majority of his time at Oxford to cultivating his social life, and embarking on a riotous career of pranks, dares, and wagers, which had resulted in his being suspended and rusticated for part of several terms—a consequence he had always laughed off, while happily spending his free time hunting and fishing. He had managed to graduate, and was then established by his indulgent father in comfortable gentleman’s lodgings in the West End of London. Mr. Mountague currently divided his time between country and town, enjoying the life of the well-bred and financially independent bachelor, until that day, a year or two hence, when it had been decreed that he would settle down and please his parents by marrying a particular, selected cousin.

The third man was Mr. Philip Clifton, the handsome, youngest son of Sir Percival’s favourite sister;—who must be visiting, Rebecca reflected, as she knew he lived in West
Sussex. She had met Philip Clifton on occasions too numerous to count over the years, when he had visited at Claremont Park with or without his family. As children, she and Sarah had played often and happily with him and the other Mountague and Clifton offspring, who made up a sizeable group when all assembled.

When Rebecca was nine years old, however (and Philip a lad of thirteen), he had done two things which were now carved into her memory. Her family had been invited to the manor-house for a Christmas party. While gathered with the other girls and engaged in drawing, Philip had made fun of her picture, calling it a terrible scribble. Later, he behaved even more poorly. Rebecca had been asked to sing. Although self-conscious and uncertain at that young age with regard to her ability, she stood up before every one, and sang as well as she could. Throughout her performance, Philip and Brook made rude faces at her; and when every body else told her how well she had done, Philip said she had sounded like two cats fighting. Both boys had run away laughing. Rebecca was mortified and went home in tears.

In the years that followed, Philip did his best to avoid her whenever he came to visit at Claremont Park. He appeared to be amiable around others, but while in her presence he was moody and silent. She did not understand from whence this dislike sprung, for
she
had done nothing that she could recall to offend
him
.

When the young men went off to Oxford, Rebecca saw less and less of them. Having matured herself, she could now laugh at those early incidents as merely foolish acts of youth, although it still made her smart
just a bit
to think of them. Whenever she encountered Brook at the manor-house, she
smiled at his lively behaviour and took no offence at his jokes. Of Philip Clifton, she had also hoped to form a new and more favourable opinion, but she had not seen him these three years past; she only knew that he had finished at university, had been ordained, and was settled in a curacy some distance away.

Upon catching sight of her, the group exchanged a discomfited glance, which conveyed to Rebecca that the young men were already acquainted with her father’s misfortune. How, she wondered, had the subject been broached? Had Sir Percival made her father the villain in the piece? She prayed that the words she had practised in her mind through a sleepless night should come to her aid and prove both civil and persuasive.

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.”