"Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barron Stephanie)Chapter 2 Enter Lord HaroldTHE MOST CURIOUS OF THE INCIDENTS I WITNESSED LAST night sprang from the arrival of a man — a gentleman and a stranger, but of so malevolent an aspect, that I shiver to find him still beneath our roof as the Earl lies dying. I was engaged in observing Lieutenant Hearst's progress towards the wine punch, when Isobel appeared at my side. Her face was becomingly flushed, and her brown eyes alight. “My dear Jane! Is not this an excellent ball? Is not it an elegant assembly? And yet I have bade my husband be off, that I may steal a few moments in your company,” she declared, taking my hand. “Come into this corner and tell me all that has happened, for since your arrival I have not had a moment to spare for your cares.” She led me to a settee placed conveniently within the alcove of a window, the better to view the progress of her ball while conversing unmolested. I confessed to some little fatigue after the rigours of Lieutenant Hearst's conversation and enthusiasm, and sank into the seat with relief, “I had hoped to be able to wish you joy, my dear Jane,” Isobel began, “but you are determined to deny me the pleasure. Now, do not run away,” she added, as I looked conscious, “in the fear that I am going to scold you — on the contrary, I admire you. Yes,” she insisted, when I would protest, “I admire your courage. It is rare to find a woman who places her personal happiness above her fears for the future. You refused Mr. Bigg-Wither, refused his offer of a home, a family, and the comfortable means they assured, to retain your independence, despite the counsel of all who wished you well and threw their weight behind the match. What strength!” “Did you know Mr. Bigg-Wither, you would think me less noble,” I said. “There cannot be “But at least your nightmares were of short duration, Jane.” Isobel smoothed the elegant folds of her green silk gown, her aspect turned sombre in an instant. “There are too many ladies, I fear, who must suffer them the length of an unhappy marriage. Better to reject a suitor, than to lie forever wakeful in contemplation of one's mistake.” “Indeed. Had I joined my life to Mr. Bigg-Wither's, the alliance must be brief; for I would certainly have died of insomnia before the week's end.” My design was to provoke laughter, but in truth, my decision to reject Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither of Manydown Park a mere four-and-twenty hours after accepting him — to the joy of my dear friends, his sisters — has caused me great pain and mortification. He is heir to extensive estates in Hampshire, and his position and fortune would be thought a conquest for any lady, particularly one such as myself, whose means are so unequal to his, and whose first bloom of youth is gone. Despite these claims against my person, Mr. Bigg-Wither had fixed upon me as the companion of his future life almost from the moment I entered Manydown House a few weeks ago. In short, his proposal was quite gratifying, coming as it did without even the pretence of courtship. In a fit of gratitude — nay, I must and shall be honest — in a fit of But he is six years my junior, an awkward, gloomy fellow burdened with a pronounced stutter; and all his consequence could not make of him a different man. As I would assuredly attempt to reform what nature had disposed Harris Bigg-Wither to “And now you are come to Scargrave to forget your cares in a whirlwind of frivolity,” Isobel said, casting off her pensive air and reaching again for my hand.” We shall make certain that you do. I shall find some young man to dance attendance upon you, to flatter you and turn your head, and send Harris Bigg-Wither and his stutter to the nether reaches of your conscience.” “Nay, Isobel,” I protested, “do not cause yourself the trouble to search further. I believe Lieutenant Hearst will amply serve my purpose. He has good looks and charm without the slightest suggestion of better feeling, and he possesses not a penny he may call his own. He shall do very well for a portionless clergyman's daughter: We may expect him to ruin me and then depart for a noble death before Buonaparte's cannon, at which point I shall throw myself in the millpond and be renowned in wine and song. Has Scargrave a millpond, Isobel?” “Take care, Jane,” my friend said, struggling to be serious; “Tom Hearst is a pleasant enough rogue, but capable of great harm for all that. I would wish him less thrown in the way of my cousin Fanny, for he has so far made her forget herself as to appear a perfect wanton, on occasion — and nothing, as you know, is further from her character.” “Assuredly,” I said, with less than perfect confidence in Fanny's character; “but enough of my cares, Isobel.” I surveyed my friend, who looked every inch the countess, from the ropes of pearls entwined in her dark red hair to the fashionable slimness of her gown's bodice. I had seen just such a cut to a neckline only once before — in an illustration of Buonaparte's consort, Josephine, from a London journal. Isobel appeared born to wear it. But as I studied her countenance, I was grieved to see marks of strain about her lovely eyes — as though she, the least likely of all my acquaintance, had slept poorly of late. Perhaps the adoption of her husband's station in life had proved too great a burden. “What of you, Isobel,” I asked gently, “these three months married?” “I? What may I possibly say of myself?” She spoke with more effort at gaiety than I should have thought necessary. “I am as you see me: an old married woman, whose adventures must be things of the past.” “You appear very well.” “I am glad to hear it,” she said, as a shadow came over her features, “for I exert myself to that end. I would not have my husband think other than that I am happy; and so my energies are directed.” “Isobel—” I was seized with a sudden apprehension. “Whatever can be the matter? You possess the But she appeared insensible of my words, absorbed as she was in some activity on the nether side of the ballroom. “Jane!” she whispered, clutching at my arm, her features whitening and her brown eyes grown suddenly large. I followed the direction of her gaze and saw with foreboding the face that had inspired such fear. He was a tall man of indeterminate age, and thin, in the manner of one who is much out-of-doors in pursuit of frequent exercise. His face was tanned, his appearance elegant, and his carriage easy as he paced the margin of the room, hands clasped behind his back and eyes roving through the crowd. I knew with certainty that it was Isobel he sought, and my immediate instinct was to shelter her from his sight. There was something in the gentleman's aspect — the hooded eyes under a sharp brow, the sweep of silver hair, the long scar that bisected one tanned cheek — that inspired fear. This was a man too much in command of himself; and such an one must always strive to command all the world. “But who is he?” I asked my friend in a whisper, as though his ears might penetrate even our sheltered alcove. “He is Lord Harold Trowbridge,” Isobel replied, her fingers pinching my arm painfully, “the Duke of Wilborough's brother. He is intent upon purchasing Crosswinds, my father's estate in the Barbadoes, which has suffered sad reversals in recent years. He gives me no peace, by day or by night.” “I believe he has seen us,” I said, my heart quickening, as the restless dark eyes came to rest on Isobel. A slow smile curled at the corners of Lord Harold's thin mouth, and with the most gracious ease he made his way across the room to where we sat. There could be no flight; the wall was to our backs, and he was before us. “Countess.” He bowed low over Isobel's hand. “It gives me such pleasure to welcome you to your new home.” “I fear the duty must be reversed, Lord Harold,” Isobel said, with an effort at a smile; “and that / must welcome “The honour is mine,” Lord Harold said, with a penetrating look and a bow in my direction. “And have you found everything to your comfort?” Isobel enquired. “Indeed,” he assured her, “I arrived but an hour ago from London, at Lord Scargrave's invitation, and have been settled comfortably by Mrs. Hodges.” At my friend's expression of surprise, I judged she had not anticipated that the man would be taking up residence; but his insolence was equal even to this. “I confess, I should not have missed such an occasion for the world,” Lord Harold continued. “To see a lady so happily and advantageously married must be a joy to those who rank her security among their dearest concerns.” His voice, though low and refined, bore a note of mockery that was lost neither on Isobel nor myself. “I rejoice to hear it,” Isobel told him, rising as if to depart, “for it is some time since I believed my security to be the very “Countess,” he said, his voice as tight and cutting as a bowstring, “I would speak with you in private.” Isobel's mouth had hardened, and her words, when they came, fell with the heaviness of stone. “You can have nothing to say to me tonight, Lord Harold, that cannot better wait until morning. A ball is hardly the hour for business.” “And tomorrow, no doubt, will be no better once it dawns,” he replied evenly, and smiled. “I will not wait forever, “You will wait as long as I please.” Isobel's eyes never left his face. “Remember, It was Lord Payne, the Earl's nephew, who put a stop to the high pitch of nerves, by appearing like a shadow at Trowbridge's shoulder. The two are equal in height, though Lord Payne has the better of Trowbridge in gravity; his courtesy was perhaps the more offensive for being exquisite. “Lord Harold,” Lord Payne said, bowing low, “we are fortunate indeed in your company this evening. But I fear I must tear you from the gentler influence of the ladies at the behest of my uncle. He requests that you join him in his study; and in this, as in all things, I do his bidding.” A few sentences only, but conveyed in such a tone that it served the moment. Lord Harold gave Lord Payne a single look, bowed low to Isobel and me, and was gone as silently as he had appeared. “Impertinent devil!” Isobel cried, clutching at Lord Payne's hand, “he will hound me to the ends of the earth!” “I would that I could rid you of his presence entirely,” said Lord Payne, “rather than for so brief a space as he is likely to grant us.” He retained the Countess's hand an instant, gazing at her with an expression of care and worry, and then recovered himself. “I fear you are unwell, Isobel. I shall inform my uncle that you are briefly indisposed, and have sought your rooms.” More than the surprising adoption of her Christian name, his tender look, when it rested upon his uncle's wife, brought me to my senses. That he was mastered by a feeling unwonted even in so near a relation, I could not doubt; and I recollected Tom Hearst's banter earlier that evening. He had declared Isobel to be chief among Fitzroy Payne's acquaintance; and what the Lieutenant would intimate I now understood all too well — the Earl's silent nephew, so inscrutable in his reserve, was better revealed by strong feeling; Lord Payne knew what it was to love. “Pray speak to Frederick on my behalf, Fitzroy,” Isobel said faintly, turning away from us both, “but say that I retire only for a little. I would not have Trowbridge believe he has me in his grasp.” As if remembering my presence for the first time since Lord Harold had withdrawn, she looked at me then, and managed a smile; and so she left us. I must set down something of my sense of Fitzroy, Viscount Payne, for I find him the very type to serve as a character in one of my novels [9]. He is a tall, well-made fellow, strikingly handsome, with slate-coloured eyes set above sharply-moulded cheekbones. It is his hair that astonishes in one but twenty-six, for it is gone completely grey in a fashion not unbecoming to his grave countenance. All the charm of his person must be weighed, however, against his manner — for Fitzroy Payne is possessed of that reserve that some might mistake for aloofness and pride. That he has a right to be proud, possessed as he is of his father's considerable estates, and being as well the man likely to succeed the Earl in his title and riches, was everywhere acknowledged among the intimates of the Scargrave ballroom; but Lord Payne's haughty silences were no more admired for having a just complacency as their cause. Though many wished to “I must thank you, sir,” I said, “for relieving me in a desperate moment. I confess I was unequal to Lord Harold in Isobel's defence, lacking full knowledge of the particulars at issue.” “You suffer no dishonour by being unequal to Lord Harold,” Fitzroy Payne said. His eyes swept over my head, searching, I fancied, for dark red hair above a daring green gown; but Isobel had quitted the ballroom. After a pause, and some observation of the dance, which had just then commenced, I assayed another attempt. “I suppose Lord Scargrave wished Lord Harold present, the better to converse with him in his library — for certainly Isobel was much surprised at the gentleman's arrival.” “Did she have full knowledge of Trowbridge's descent upon this house hours before he effected it, she should still be made as ill,” Lord Payne said, with some bitterness. “You share the Countess's dislike,” I observed. To this sally I received no answer but a knitting of the brows and a heightened gravity. “Perhaps we shall summon Lieutenant Hearst and have him challenge Lord Harold to a duel,” I suggested, in an effort at lightness. “The Lieutenant shall exercise his honour, and be of service to a lady — two pursuits in which I understand he excels.” A chill smile, but again no word. “I detect a similarity in the turn of our minds, Viscount Payne,” I persisted, in some exasperation. “We are both of a taciturn, ungenerous nature, and would rather be silent until we may say what is certain to astonish all the world.” For this I won the barest moment of liveliness in his grey eyes, and the gift of an answer. “From a better acquaintance with my own foolishness, Miss Austen, I must be silent; but of you I can readily believe a delight in astonishing.” “There!” I cried. “My opinion is proved. You cannot even “I meant rather to praise than insult, and so my words could hardly fall ill.” He turned his dark eyes upon me with a penetrating look. “The desire to astonish may be considered a vice only when it lacks the wit to achieve its aim — but with wit, Miss Austen, you are clearly most blessed. And now, I fear, I must desert you for the office with which I am charged — that of informing my uncle of my aunt's indisposition.” He bowed; I nodded; and a gentleman assailing me for a dance at that moment, I left Fitzroy Payne to find his way amidst the boisterous throng. But during the course of the evening I was made more sensible of Lord Payne's attractions. My subsequent partners were to prove less able in conversation, and less provocative even in their silences, than the Viscount had proved with a single sentence. IT WAS AFTER A PARTICULARLY TEDIOUS EXCHANGE WITH such an one, that I bethought me of refreshment, and parting with my dubious suitor in some relief, betook myself along the gallery that led from the ballroom to the smallish parlour, where the supper was arrayed. The last of the dances being just then struck up, I found myself blessedly alone in my progress towards the wine punch. I had barely passed the first of the closed doorways lining the hall, when I was halted in my steps by the fierce eruption of argument near at hand. I turned and espied the entrance to the Earl's library, whence Lord Harold had disappeared but an hour before. From behind its closed door emanated the voices of two men, raised in strenuous argument. Lord Scargrave and Trowbridge? It could not be otherwise. I may perhaps be forgiven a woman's curiosity when I admit that, finding myself quite alone for the moment, I lingered along my way. The words soon became intelligible. “You are not to mention the name of Rosie Ketch,” one gentleman cried. “You have debauched her in speech often enough.” “That is laughable, sir; coming from you.” “You shall not support me in this?” “Never; sir.” “Then, my lord, I cannot be responsible for the consequences. You have driven me to my utmost extremity, and God forgive me! I know how it is that I must act.” The voices were grown louder, as though one or both of the parties had approached the door; I looked about me for a place of safety, and could find none but the heavy draperies cloaking the tall windows. I had only tucked myself behind them, doing violence to my hair and gown, when the door was thrust open and a gentleman burst from the room, the fury of his words propelling him with like energy from the Earl's presence. I stole a look around the curtain edge, certain to see Lord Harold — and found myself confronted, to my astonishment, with George Hearst, the Lieutenant's older brother. What could it mean? The gloomy ecclesiastic, revealed as a man of hot temper? Mr. Hearst was not a moment gone when the Earl himself appeared in the hall, his face reddened as with apoplexy. I remembered then Isobel's care for her husband's health, and smiled. It was not an excess of claret that plagued the Earl, but a surfeit of family; and of this, no one was likely to cure him. The Earl made for the ballroom, and after an instant's pause to right my feather and settle the clumps of curls about my cheeks, I followed my host. I was in time to see him raise a glass before the assembly to his newly-won bride, drink it to the dregs, and double over in a fit of acute dyspepsia. Protesting and declaring himself to be very well, our host was borne from the room on the broad backs of two footmen, an anxious Isobel in his wake; and so the revels ended. I WAS JUST NOW RETURNED TO THE PRESENT BY ISOBEL'S appearance at my door. “Jane,” she said, with great steadiness, “the crisis is passed.” “God be thanked!” I cried, and threw down my pen. “Is He, indeed?” She gave me a strange look. “You mistake my meaning. The crisis is passed, my dear friend, and the Earl is dead.” I went to her in an instant, my countenance conveying all my sorrow, and bent her head upon my breast. But Isobel had no tears; her beautiful sherry-coloured eyes were blank and unseeing, her form as rigid as the Earl lying cold within her marriage bed. I released her without a word, feeling as though my heart should break, and watched her tortured progress down the corridor. At my window now, I pull back the heavy draperies smelling of must, and gaze out upon a desolate dawn. No sun shall rise today for human eyes to see; the world entire is wrapped round in whirling white, an impenetrable cloud of cold and ice that chills the heart as it freezes the ground. Scargrave's vast parkland is adrift, its black trees etched like wraiths against the grey sky of morning. I think of Frederick, Earl of Scargrave — of his soul gone forth too soon from earthly happiness, and on such a frigid day — and I am consumed with sorrow for all of mortal men. What are last night's revels, its frivolities and petty triumphs, against the magnitude of the grave? I let fall the draperies, blocking out the snow, and shiver in my nightdress. I came into Hertfordshire seeking diversion; and what I have found is Death, in more vivid and horrible a form than I had yet been taught to expect. I may take it as my reward for cowardice — for so such a flight from one's worst nature is always revealed — to witness the agonising end of the Earl of Scargrave, and be utterly powerless to reverse it. |
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