The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (12 page)

“I hope you will, Martha,” said Rebecca sincerely. “You
have always been goodness itself, and I would not like to think of you unhappy.”

On their last night, as Rebecca walked through the rooms of the rectory, she keenly felt her impending loss, knowing that it was the last time she would live there, as mistress of that house; the last time she would ever gaze out the windows at her favourite prospects, or sleep in her own bed. In the privacy of her chamber, she shed a great many tears.

C
HAPTER
V

They made an early start the next morning, as Mr. Stanhope was determined to make the entire journey in one day; a proposition made easier in that it was still summer. They were to travel post.

A light rain was falling, adding an even more melancholy note to their departure, as, from the misty window glasses of the chaise, Rebecca bid a silent adieu to Elm Grove Rectory. A multitude of scenes passed through her mind, of times enjoyed within its walls, from her early childhood onwards, including particular memories of her mother, which appeared doubly precious to her now.

Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope spoke very little at first, each wrapped in their own contemplations; but once seven or eight miles had been traversed, and new, unseen vistas presented themselves, Rebecca’s thoughts turned from what they had left behind, and began to focus on the features of the journey itself, in which every object was now fresh and interesting. Even the changing of horses was something new. Although the day was long, they both found much in
the passing scenery to remark upon. Soon, the rain let up. The inn at which they stopped to dine was clean, and the meal surprisingly good, entirely exceeding Mr. Stanhope’s expectations.

When they had covered three-and-twenty miles, they were so far away from every thing familiar, that it seemed to Rebecca as if they had entered an entirely new country, a sensation which was not entirely displeasing. When, in late afternoon, they had travelled nearly twice that distance, they entered Medford Valley, a spot so beautifully wooded, and so rich in pasture, that Rebecca’s spirits rose even further.

“It is a very picturesque country,” observed Mr. Stanhope, “although these bottoms must be very dirty in winter.”

In time they passed a pair of fine iron gates, through which Rebecca could perceive a long drive leading through a leafy, green park to a magnificent house, which her father deduced must belong to Mrs. Penelope Harcourt, the wealthy widow to whom Charles Morris owed his benefice.

A mile further on, they entered Medford itself, a large, pleasantly situated, and populous village. As they drove down the broad but irregular main street, Rebecca observed a great deal of bustle. A donkey-cart and a farmer’s wagon passed them, followed by a horseman. Moments later, a gentleman walked hastily by, and yet another gentleman came out of an office door. She saw a pair of children chasing a ball, a man cleaning a shop window, and two ladies chatting gaily; all of whom paused to gaze with curiosity at their passing carriage.

“Look, papa, how busy it is! Why, there is a drapery store. And an inn!” As they drove on, Rebecca named with wonder all the shops they passed. “A baker. An optician. A solicitor. A butcher. An apothecary! My goodness. Sarah did not
exaggerate in her description of the place. It is a very fine village indeed.”

“Why, it almost amounts to a town,” said her father with equal satisfaction.

The church was old but stately, with a tower that looked newly built, within which a set of three handsome bells were now ringing out the hour of four, a circumstance which Mr. Stanhope observed with a little sigh. Immediately after the church, the main street became again a lane; and just beyond, at the very end of the town, before the open fields began, lay the vicarage.

The chaise drew up to the small gate. As Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope alighted, they had but a moment or two to take in the exterior features of the house itself—a compact edifice, enclosed in its own small garden, with a vine trained round its casements—when the front door opened and Sarah and Charles appeared with their three little children, and hurried down the gravel path to meet them. In a moment they were all in each other’s arms, rejoicing and exchanging greetings and embraces.

Sarah was pretty and pleasingly plump, a woman content in her role as wife and mother, whose gentleness and generosity of heart shone in her bright eyes, blooming cheeks, and ready smile. She carried eighteen-month-old Arabella in her arms, while her husband held the hands of their two fine boys, George and Christopher, who were five and three years old. Rebecca happily took the baby into her arms, as she and Mr. Stanhope admired the children’s beauty, remarking upon how much they had grown since their last meeting. After their trunks were unloaded and brought to the front steps, and the vehicle drew away, the party remained outside,
engaged in the animated chatter of affectionate people who have not seen each other in several months’ time.

“We are very happy to see you,” said Charles, “yet grieved by the circumstances which occasioned it.” Charles Morris was seven years older than his wife, a man of good understanding who was a thoughtful husband and father; by all accounts, he discharged his duties very ably in the parish, and Rebecca found much to admire in him.

“Dear papa,” said Sarah with emotion, “I can scarcely conceive that we shall never return to Elm Grove again—it is too, too hard.”

“One can never tell what is waiting for us round the corner,” was Mr. Stanhope’s cheerful reply, “but we have our health, and now the joy of your company, and we count our blessings.”

They all took a turn round the garden. The gentlemen, as always, must have their say about the details of the journey undergone; they immediately fell into an animated conversation, beginning with the costs incurred in hiring the equipage, tipping the post-boy, &c., and moving on to the state of the roads, which in turn prompted a debate as to whether it was worse to travel in winter, when one was plagued by frost and snow upon beds of stones on the rough lanes about the villages, or in spring, when every thing was flooded. The ladies, meanwhile, took delight in studying the flowerbeds and potatoes which Sarah and the children had planted, while little Christopher shyly held down his head against his mother’s skirts, and George danced about, alternately throwing himself on the lawn and jumping up to play. Charles then invited them to admire the view of the fields and surrounding hills, which Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope agreed was very fine.

They were about to enter the house, when two lively voices hailed them, and Rebecca looked round to discover a pair of women hastening up the road in their direction. At first she thought her eyes deceived her; for the ladies were absolutely identical in appearance, not only in face and form, but in dress as well, wearing every thing exactly the same, from their bonnets to their shoes.

“It is the Wabshaw sisters,” whispered Sarah.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” said Charles, as the two in question breathlessly hurried up and stopped before them with bright smiles.

Rebecca recalled what her sister had told her about the Wabshaws: they were the twin daughters of a man of property in a neighbouring county, whose estate had been entailed away from the female line. Since the death of both their parents, they had removed to Medford, where they lived in reduced circumstances in a small cottage. They were no longer young; their features suggested that they had never been handsome; and they were indistinguishable, one from the other, although one was introduced as Cecilia, and the other as Cordelia.

“We saw your carriage pass by,” said one of the Miss Wabshaws, in a tone of great enthusiasm, accompanied by a shrill laugh. “We see every thing from our front window, you know, for it overlooks the street.”

“Yes, it overlooks it quite directly,” said the second Miss Wabshaw, with equal animation and identical laughter.

“Mrs. Morris said you would arrive to-day, and we simply could not prevent ourselves from coming at once to bid you welcome.”

“We simply could not prevent ourselves!”

“I am the eldest,” said the first Miss Wabshaw, “born five minutes before my sister, but no one can tell us apart—”

“—even our mother and father could not make the distinction—”

“No, they never could—”

“—so you may address us both as Miss Wabshaw.”

“Every body does.”

“We do not mind.”

“Well then, Miss Wabshaw, and Miss Wabshaw, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Rebecca, restraining her own urge to laugh; and her father repeated the sentiment.

The sisters each carried a basket which they thrust at Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope. “Pray, allow us to present you with a little welcoming gift. Here is a cake we baked ourselves.”

“And muffins. We could not agree on which you would prefer—”

“We discussed it endlessly, and could not agree—”

“So we made both.”

“Thank you kindly,” said Mr. Stanhope, as he and Rebecca accepted their offerings. “I am sure we shall enjoy them, for I am equally fond of cake and muffins.”

“Equally fond, sister!” cried one of the Miss Wabshaws, as they exchanged a look and a smile.

“Equally fond! So we were both right!”

“We were both right!” This seemed to please them both no end. Turning back to Rebecca and the others, the twin continued, “We know you have just arrived, and we do not wish to impose on you—”

“No, we do not wish to impose—”

“So we shall take our leave. But we do hope you will call on us very soon.”

“Yes, very soon! We live in Rose Cottage, immediately adjacent to the apothecary, you cannot miss it, there are pink roses trailed round the door.”

“Pink roses! You cannot miss it.”

“We may not live elegantly—”

“Indeed we do
not
, for our cottage is very small, but we can offer good cake—”

“The very best cake!”

“And attentive company!”

“You will not want for conversation with the Wabshaws, we assure you!” The sisters laughed in unison.

“Thank you kindly for the invitation,” said Rebecca. “My sister and I shall be sure to call on you soon.”

Parting remarks were exchanged, and the twins returned in the direction from whence they came.

“What congenial ladies,” said Mr. Stanhope, beaming.

“They are precisely as I imagined them to be,” whispered Rebecca to Sarah, sharing a look of amusement, “for you wrote of them most descriptively in your letters.”

“Did I happen to mention in my letters that they are the worst cooks in England?” whispered Sarah in return. “We will be obliged to feed their cake and muffins to the chickens.”

This statement was met with general laughter; and they all issued within the vicarage.

“It is a very old house, I am afraid, and far too cramped,” apologised Charles, as he and Sarah guided the newcomers through the tiny entrance hall into the sitting-room, and on a tour of all the chambers. “I have not had the money to make the improvements I would like.”

The place was, indeed, even more compact than Rebecca had anticipated. Many modest extensions, Charles explained, had been made before his tenure, but none too well, and no two rooms were on the same level.

“The vicarage is so small,” said Sarah, smiling, “that Charles often likens it to a carriage with a basket and dickey. But it is large enough for me, and satisfies all my wants.”

“You have made it very comfortable,” observed Rebecca truthfully, taking care not to trod on the children’s playthings, which lay strewn about. She was pleased by the brightly-coloured drapes at the windows, and the pictures which added cheer to the walls. “It is gratifying to see where you have been living all these years. I see why you are so happy here.”

The sleeping arrangements were soon gone over, and Rebecca learned what pains had been undergone to accommodate them. There were only three bedrooms, and a tiny chamber adjacent to the offices which housed their man-servant;—as such, it had been determined that the nurse maid would move in with the maid and cook, and Rebecca would sleep with the children.

Rebecca swallowed back her dismay. For six years, she had slept alone. While she had missed Sarah’s company at first, she had come to enjoy the privacy. Never had she envisioned herself sharing a room with an infant and two small boys. At the same time, she was ashamed for feeling any thing less than grateful, and suffered a pang of guilt on behalf of the poor maid and displaced nurse maid, who (unlike herself) would be obliged to share a bed. “Thank you,” said she sincerely.

“Dear Charles insisted that papa must have a room of his own,” said Sarah. “Wait until you see what he has designed.”

They were led to Charles’s small study, where he proudly demonstrated his newest acquisition: a shut-up bed, which unfolded from a cupboard simulating a wardrobe, and when set up for sleeping, left just space enough in the room to walk between it and the desk and the wall.

“I saw it advertised in the paper,” explained Charles proudly, “as one of the articles at an estate sale. I sent for it immediately. It was only just delivered and installed yesterday.”