"Jane and the Man of the Cloth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barron Stephanie)Chapter 1 The Perils of Travelling PostIT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED, THAT THE EXPECTATION of pleasure is generally preferred to its eventual attainment — the attainment being marred, at its close, by the resumption of quotidian routine made onerous by the very diversions so lately enjoyed. But as I gaze upon the tortured aspect of my dearest sister, her head bound round in a makeshift bandage, her pallor extreme, and her features overlaid with suffering, I must declare all such nice distinctions the indulgence of a frivolous mind. For how much more melancholy still, to find pleasure usurped entirely by the advent of disaster! To have no chance of mourning the But I write entirely of outcomes, and am quite heedless of causes; a testament to the discomposure of my mind. I shall step back, the better to govern the tumult of my reason, and endure again the horror of those moments that left my dear one insensible in a stranger's bed. BATH BEING UNBEARABLY HOT THIS AUGUST, AND MY FATHER'S health indifferent, we determined to exchange our rooms in Town for more salubrious ones along the coast. We had little inclination to try the bustle and vulgarity of Ramsgate[3], though my brother Edward Being possessed of a fortune that no longer admits of a private carriage, but finding ourselves above the meaner conveyance of mail coach and stage — the former being adjudged too swift and precarious for my father's temper, and the latter too crowded and vulgar for my mother's— we were forced to adopt the only alternative, a post chaise initiating in Bath, with horses changed daily Though it was not much beyond six o'clock, the light had failed utterly, leaving the interior of our coach in a grey dimness through which the faces of my sister and mother, seated opposite, shone palely. Cassandra, who is ever indisposed by the motion of a carriage, and who, after long days of travel, was at the last extremity of her endurance, was in very ill looks; and her temper could hardly be improved by the proximity of my mother, whose general alarm at the fearful neighs of the horses as the storm built wrathfully above our heads, and the postboy's resultant curses, had taught her to seek comfort in a fierce pinching of Cassandra's hand within her own. I observed the whitened knuckles of her grip, and silently thanked the force of chance that had placed me beside my father. “We shall be overturned! I am sure of it! Overturned, Mr. Austen!” my mother cried. “Now, my dearest,” my father said, in a tone ofgende reproof, “you must not give way to womanly fears. The Lord looks after His own.” “Then He must be looking after them in Town,” my mother replied, in some exasperation, “for He is assuredly “Now, my dear,” my father said again, and took up once more his book. A fearsome jolt then occurring, I was thrown abruptly against the coach window, and seized my chance to gaze out upon a storm-tossed world. The pitted road, but poorly maintained in the best of times, was awash in muddy water; the adjacent trees lashed into silvery indistinctness by the combined effects of wind and rain; and no relief apparent in the lowering density of cloud. I drew back to the relative comfort of the coach's interior, and attempted to calculate the distance remaining. We were some hours removed from Crewkerne, where we had spent the previous day and evening, not being prone to Sunday travel[6]; and should even now be breasting the long hill into Up Lyme. Was not the carriage rising? But as this very thought struck, a yet more bone-rattling shudder seized the coach's frame, as though a great beast had taken us up in its jaws and tossed us about for sport. I cried out, and was rewarded with a look of terror from my mother and a squeak of pain from Cassandra, whose hand was no doubt suffering under the effects of her companion's anxiety. “Overturned, Mr. Austen!” the good woman cried, and half-stood as though to throw herself upon her husband's breast. A great crash from the road ahead, and a lurching of the carriage; then the screaming of horses, and a tumult that could only be due to chaos within the traces. For the world to revolve an hundred degrees, was required but a moment; and when I found the courage to open my eyes, the floor was become the coach's ceiling. A most ludicrous position, particularly when viewed through a quantity of muslin, the result of one's skirts being tipped over one's head. I lay an instant in utter silence, feeling the rapid patter of my heart and the laboured nature of my breathing; and was relieved to find that both continued in force. A grunt from my father roused me. “Sir!” I cried, endeavouring to secure him amidst the murk and confusion. “May I be of assistance?” At that, the coach's nether door was seized and opened — by the postboy, no doubt — and my father, whose main support the door had been, tumbled from the vehicle. Hardly a dignified antic for a clergyman of three-and-seventy, but followed by the still less-seemly exit of his younger daughter, her skirts in a tangle about her knees. The relief, however, at being freed from such a world gone topsy-turvy, was beyond every indecorous attempt to achieve it; I drew a shaky breath and tested my limbs, heedless of the fierce rain that pelted my cap. My father, having been helped to his feet by the postboy (a burly fellow of some five-and-thirty, one Hibbs by name), was seized with a coughing fit. The poor man's senses were little assisted when Hibbs thought to pound upon his back, and I hastened to intervene. “Father,” I said, taking him by the arm, “I trust you are not injured in any way?” “Only in complaisance, my dear,” he replied, with the ghost of a smile, “and that has been decidedly shaken. I shall be forced to attend your mother's every warning, by and by — a triumph, I fear, that she shall not know how to sustain.” My mother! I turned in an instant, and peered back within the carriage's depths — and oh! What a scene I then descried! My beloved sister lay wan and lifeless, in a heap of crushed muslin against the coach's farthest wall — the wall that had received all the force of impact in the conveyance's upheaval. My mother was attempting to shift Cassandra towards the open door — which, given the tossing of the coach, was well above her head; but the poor woman lacked the strength for it, and was reduced to tears as a consequence. “Stay, madam,” I cried, and leapt for the postboy. The man Hibbs saw the necessity in a moment; and lifted Cassandra to safety so swiftly and gently that I was all but struck speechless; the condition of the poor sufferer being of paramount importance, however, I offered broken thanks and turned to her comfort, overcome by nameless dread. So much lively beauty, reduced to deathly silence! It was not to be borne. My beloved sister was carried to the shelter of a tree, and my father's cloak propped on a few sticks above her, in an ineffectual attempt to shield her from the rain. My mother's wails declared her incapable of use; my father was consigned to comfort her; and 1 turned to Cassandra to see what ill I might find. A great bruise overspread her temple, and in feeling about her scalp, I was rewarded by a grimace of pain flitting across her countenance, and a warm trickle of blood upon my fingertips. I chafed her wrists, and called her name; implored her, in desperation, to awake; but she continued insensible, lying at the verge of the road like so much cast-off clothing. The horror that seized me then! I shudder to recall it. I was the closest to despair 1 have been in all my life — and so resolved upon action. To “Hibbs!” I shouted. The tumult of the storm continued unabated, making all attempt at conversation a dubious affair. “Yes, miss,” the man rejoined, turning from the wreckage of his rig. “My sister cannot remain here.” “Don't know as she ‘as much choice, beggin’ yer pardon, miss. The horses be gone, and the coach a fair ruin. Then there's the matter o’ that there tree,” he said, tossing a look over his shoulder. I regained my feet and peered ahead into the tempest A massive trunk indeed lay full across the road, barring further passage. How unfortunate that it should be “We cannot hope to shift it?” Hibbs shook his head in reply. “And with the nags run off—” “Then we must fetch assistance from some neighbouring farm,” I said with authority, and cast about me into the gloom. Misfortune could not have chosen a more desolate place to befall us. As far as the gaze might reach, the high downs roiled unimpeded to the sea. But wait— “Is not that a light, away there in the distance?” The postboy shrugged, and his brows lowered. “Happen it is. But you'll not be finding help for the young lady at the Grange.” “And why ever not?” “They're queer folk.” “Queer or no, they cannot refuse to help a lady in such distress,” I replied firmly, and turned to my father. Heedless of the rain that had completely soaked his hat, he stood at a little distance from my mother, who was bent over Cassandra in an attitude of despair. My sister's condition, I saw at a glance, was unchanged. With such burdens of infirmity and age parcelled out among them, they should none of them be left too long in darkness and storm. “Sir,” I called, crossing to my father, “the postboy and I intend to seek aid from the farm whose lights you espy at a little distance. We shall hasten to return.” “But, Jane — my dear — had not /better go?” my father enquired doubtfully, and when I would insist, he added in a lowered tone, “For it cannot be proper to send you off into the night in the company of such a man. A complete stranger, and a hapless one, 1 fear; only look to what an impasse he has brought us!” “But thankfully, Father, he calls this country home; and may be of service in appealing to the inhabitants of the farm. And as to going yourself — would you leave three women alone and unprotected, on such a road, in such a state? Better that you should stand with my mother, and comfort her when you may.” I turned from him before he could reply — for, in truth, help should be long in coming, did my father go in search of it. He is an elderly gentleman whose pace is slow on the smoothest of roads, and in the best of light; and I paled to think of him attempting the downs in the present hour. “Come along, Hibbs,” 1 called to the postboy, who stood muttering under his breath over the ruin of his harness. ‘To the Grange it is, as fast as our feet may carry us.” I SHALL PASS OVER IN SILENCE THE RIGOURS OF THAT DAMPENING walk; how endless it seemed, the lights of the Grange receding ever before us through the rain; how our ankles were turned, and our clothes snagged, and our legs thoroughly wearied, well before we came to the narrow track through the meadow that led to a neat gate, and a stone pathway running up to a massive oak door, lit only by a smoking lanthorn. High Down Grange — for so, I have learnt, is its full name — was at one time a modest farmhouse, though now turned country manor; the home of a gendeman, by all appearances, while maintaining still its purpose as a center of agricultural endeavour. The house was wrapt in quiet, despite the storm, the fierceness of which had driven all sensible folk within doors; and my relief was so great, upon gaining the stoop, that I nearly sank to my knees in gratitude. The baying of a dog — nay, several dogs — announced our arrival, and then the beasts themselves rounded the corner of the house like a pack of wolves, slavering for our throats. I confess that I screamed, and clutched at poor Hibbs, who thrust me behind him and menaced the curs with a stout cudgel — taken up some time past as a walking stick, but performing now a dearer service. “Jasper! Fang! You there, Beelzebub! Heel! The commanding voice came from the doorway, now streaming with light as the sturdy oak was unbarred. A lanthorn held high revealed a gendeman's face — though a countenance most harshly-drawn, under a windswept mop of black hair. The master of High Down, I presumed; and masterly enough with his dark brows heavy and knit, his eyes glowing and fierce, and his nose as sharply hooked as a bird of prey's. A man of middlish age, perhaps five-and-thirty, arrayed in knee breeches and a white shirt quite open at the collar, his stock being put aside as though he were in the act of retiring. His countenance was suffused with a most ungentlemanly rage — the violence of his great dogs, it seemed, being mirrored in the spirits of their master. “Who the Devil are you?” he cried, with a glower for the beasts, now cowering at his feet, and a glower for ourselves — and so Hibbs and I were welcomed to High Down Grange. “Miss Jane Austen, of Bath,” I replied, in a tone that betrayed a quaver. “Miss Jane Austen of Bath, and her merry man,” our host said caustically, with a look for poor Hibbs. “And what in God's name brings you out on such a night? Some unholy pilgrimage?”[7] “A gentleman of better breeding and greater charity might have saved such questions for the comfort of his drawing-room,” I retorted, my patience thoroughly spent. The rain, though diminished to a fine drizzle, was still as wet; and its continued descent upon my drenched cap and shawl did nothing to improve my temper. “We are clearly driven to your door by the utmost extremity, sir, and if any alternative served, should never have troubled you longer — for you are undoubtedly lacking in the sensibilities of a true gentleman, and the assistance of a common labourer should be given with greater goodwill, I am sure.” “Undoubtedly,” he said, and though his lip curled cynically at the word, my tart rebuke appeared to soften him a little. His choler drained away, and I thought him about to speak in a more measured tone, when a small sound caused him to turn, and the rings of light emanating from the lamp he held shifted and welled like a tide of water across the darkened courtyard. I turned, and started in fright, and reached again for Hibbs's arm; for we were held at bay by the business end of a very imposing blunderbuss, levelled in the hands of a stable boy — of malevolent intent, to judge by his aspect. ‘Put up the gun, Toby,” the master of High Down said gendy. “You need not be threatening a bedraggled woman. She looks harmless enough.” “She ain't no woman, Mr. Sidmouth, sir. She's a “Be off wi’ ye,’ the boy said menacingly; but he lowered the blunderbuss, with evident mistrust. “'re no more in a pack o’ spies, ye are. Be off, ‘fore I blows ye down the lane!” “Toby!” Mr. Sidmouth — for so I assumed him to be, as Hibbs had named him — strode swiftly from the doorway to the boy's side, with nary a glance for ourselves. He pried the gun from Toby's hands and turned him towards the back of the house, from whence he had appeared. “Tell Mary we've company, and then fetch Miss Sera-phine, there's a good fellow.” “Run ‘em off, Mr. Sid,” the boy said, by way of reply. “They're here as ‘formers, I'll lay my soul on't.” A sound bussing on the bottom was his only answer, and the master of High Down turned once more to face us. “My apologies,” he told us. “The boy has yet to learn his manners.” “You astonish me.” My tone was dry. “And with such a paragon as yourself for instruction?” In the lamp's glow, Sidmouth's mouth tightened, and the black brows lowered over his eyes. I felt sure that in a moment he should drive us down the hill with the butt of the gun, but instead, he drew breath and managed a smile. “Your reproof is well-placed, Miss Jane Austen of Bath,” he said. “I fear I have shown myself to disadvantage upon first meeting. Do not, I beg of you, take the instant for a portrait of the man. And now, I trust, you will do me the honour of entering High Down Grange? For it rains” — at this, he cast a look towards the heavens — “undoubtedly it rains.” There was an air of immense satisfaction about the man, that I was at a loss to understand; but mindful of my sister's plight I wasted not another thought upon Mr. Sidmouth and his mysteries, and followed him into the house. It is a simple-enough affair, rather reminiscent, at first glance, of dear Steventon[8], in its exposed beams and whitewashed walls. I imagined the upstairs rooms would have sloping floors, and dormer eaves, and all the comfort of age and use to recommend them — and as I sit here now, writing by the light of a single candle, in one such a room, I find my conjecture immediately proved. It is a house made for laughter and song and the fresh-blown scent of roses in the doorway, and that it is sadly lacking in all such delights, I readily discerned. For High Down Grange has been subject to decided neglect — the result, perhaps, of having no mistress. Geoffrey Sidmouth is a single man, prone, as are all such fellows, to thoughtlessness with regard to his surroundings, and to an overactive benevolence towards his hounds, his horses, and his hunting. Or so I surmise. The drawing-room eloquendy bespoke the want of a lady's attention, in its shabby fittings and dusty aspect, and I wondered, as I stood uneasy upon the hearth, at the aforementioned Mary — was she cook, or housekeeper, or merely a slovenly attempt at both? And who should “Allow me to introduce myself,” Sidmouth said, in closing the door and crossing to the fire. “I am Geoffrey Sidmouth, and High Down Grange is my home — at present. I take it from Hibbs being your attendant, Miss Austen, that you are a traveller in these parts; and that his regrettably poor driving has unhorsed your equipage.” Hibbs glowered from his place near the doorway, all the anger of his outraged reputation hot upon his lips; but Sidmouth silenced him with a glance. “I have reason to regret that driving myself,” he mused. “I am surprised you have the courage to show your face here, man.” With that, the master's eyes found the postboy's and their gazes locked for an inscrutable instant; an instant that ended in Hibbs hanging his head. “Go to the kitchen until we have need of you,” Sidmouth said; and Hibbs quitted the room without another word. The master of High Down motioned me to a worn chair by the fire, and as I hesitated, surveying the soaking fabric of my gown, and certain it should leave a mark, he made a gesture of impatience and took me by the arm in a most forward manner. I had begun to regret poor Hibbs, when Sidmouth thrust me abrupdy towards the seat. “Forget the matter of your dress,” he said, not un-gentiy. “It shall be changed as soon as possible for another. Now, tell me of your affairs. You travel alone? From Bath to Lyme is a great distance for a lady, and without even her maid.” “Indeed, sir, I do not,” I said, all the memory of my recent trouble rushing full upon my mind. “I travel with those dearest to me in the world — and overcome, like myself, by a great misfortune. Having changed horses at Crewkerne, and acquired Hibbs as postboy, we thought to make Lyme this very e'en — and should have done so, but for the storm. We were, as you have surmised, overturned; and I fear my beloved sister is injured as a result She lies even now upon the verge of the road, and I am come to beg your assistance; for she cannot remain there. We are lost without your aid, Mr. Sidmouth, and every minute must be precious in such a cause.” To his credit, Sidmouth made for the door with alacrity, crying harshly for the stable boy Toby as he did; and I was allowed the sensation of exquisite relief, in having accomplished my mission without further enquiry, and in being able to enjoy the comforts of the chair by the fire, despite my sodden dress and aching feet In an instant the master of High Down had returned, followed by the unfortunate Hibbs. “I am sending this fellow and Toby in search of your sister immediately, Miss Austen, with the instruction that they are to convey her hither. There were others in your party, I believe?” “My father and mother, sir, of advanced years.” “I fear you shall none of you make Lyme tonight Hibbs tells me of a great tree, to which he credits the chaos of his horses, that lies across the road and bars all passage.” The curl in Sidmouth's lip as he spoke these words, told all his opinion of Hibbs's excuses, “four family shall be borne to High Down, and the hospitality of this house extended gladly to all.” “Thank you, sir,” I said, with a bow of my head. “You are very kind, and we are much obliged to your goodness.” “Think nothing of it I would that I could do more. And now, my man,”he said to Hibbs, as we heard the sound of a carriage being brought round to the door, “be off. Do everything to assure the Austens’ comfort, since you have already assured their distress. There are lap robes and warm bricks in the carriage/’ “It may be that a waggon should serve better,” I broke in. “It might more easily cross the downs, should the road hither prove impassable. And, too, when I left my sister, she was as yet insensible from a blow to the head. She may be incapable of mounting the carriage steps, and my father is no longer strong enough to lift her.” “The carriage will have to do,” Sidmouth said shortly. “There is not a waggon to be had tonight. Hibbs must serve, should any lifting be necessary.” I wondered at such words, and at the obligations which could engage a farm's waggons in such darkness and rain; and wondered still more at Sidmouth's failure to go to my sister himself, when necessity pled so powerful a cause. But he turned away from me, and paced before the fire, seemingly lost in contemplation of the flames. “Cannot we send to Lyme for a surgeon, Mr Sidmouth?” I enquired anxiously, as a new thought struck me. “My sister, I fear, is gravely injured; no care should be spared, that might prove her salvation.” “A surgeon is utterly impossible.” “But why?” I was astounded. “I know that a tree bars the way into town, but could not a single horse pass where a larger conveyance might not?” “Did we send for the surgeon the entire night through, Miss Austen, we should assuredly find him already called out.” “But you cannot know this for a certainty!” “I fear that I can. I fear that I The painful pause in our discourse was broken by the turning of the doorknob, and the silent entrance of a woman so beautiful, that had I not heard the name Sera-phine spoken already by Sidmouth himself, I am certain it should have sprung unbidden to my lips. There was “There you are at last,” Sidmouth said, with a touch of impatience. The angel made no reply, but awaited his command. “This is Miss Jane Austen.” Her gaze turned my way, as cold as the breath of a sepulchre. Then she looked her enquiry to Sidmouth. To my surprise, he broke into a torrent of French, a language with which I am somewhat familiar; but the rapidity of his speech left me quickly behind. A few words only I caught— “Mr. Sidmouth,” I cried. “Yes, Miss Austen?” He halted in the. very act of exiting, and offered a lifted eyebrow. “This is a very singular household indeed,” I burst out. “’Singular’ does not even begin to describe it,” Mr. Sidmouth replied, and left me to myself. I HAD NOT LONG TO AWAIT THE RETURN OF THE GRANGE'S CARRIAGE, and my anxious feet had sped me to the courtyard well before the horses were pulled up, and the coach door flung open, and my dear Cassandra laid on a settee before the fire. She was as colourless as a ghost, and I might even have believed her to have expired, but from the composure of my father in attending her. Sidmouth materialised in the drive with a sturdy farm woman behind, the very Mary whose slovenliness I had conjectured; she bore a steaming basin and a quantity of torn cloth, for the preparation of bandages, and I was soon relieved to find her possessed of a quiet efficiency. When she had bathed Cassandra's wound, Sidmouth himself bent over my sister with an air of command that would not be gainsaid. His fingers probed the bones of her skull, and passed with delicate knowledge along her temple, so that she winced in her delirium, but showed no other sign of discomfort. My poor Cassandra! So lovely still, despite her suffering, that even Sidmouth could not fail to be moved! “Mary,” he said, extending a hand for a cloth and wringing it over the basin, “she will need some brandy first and then some hot broth. Beef, 1 think. Fetch those and your smelling salts directly.” The woman silently departed, and the master of High Down proceeded to test the waist of my sister's dress, so that my mother made a small movement of distress, and my father laid his hand upon hers. “The gendeman knows what he is about, my dear,” my father said quietly. Then, to Mr. Sidmouth himself, “You have experience in such matters, I believe?” “I do.” “You were in His Majesty's service at one time?” I saw the direction my father's thoughts were taking; and applauded his perspicacity. Sidmouth's actions looked for all the world like those of a camp doctor, accustomed to crisis in the field. But the gentleman himself did not reply directly. “Her ribs are intact, for which you may be thankful,” he said briskly, and reached for a length of calico to dress Cassandra's temple. “She is not out of danger — we must await the outcome of the night to proclaim her truly safe — but I think it likely she shall only want strength for some weeks, and suffer from the headache. I venture to predict, that barring a relapse in the next few hours, she may recover entirely.” My mother gave a faint cry, and staggered backwards; my own relief was not to be described; and my father silently joined his hands in an attitude of prayer. To all of this, Sidmouth made sardonic witness, a faint smile about his lips. At Mary's reappearance, brandy was administered, and smelling salts applied; Cassandra's consciousness returned, and with it a bewilderment that brought tears to her eyes — and so we were borne away to bed. HOW EXTRAORDINARY IS THE HAND OF FATE ITS ACCIDENTAL miseries, its directed salvations. My father bears Cassandra's trouble well, and is even now gone peacefully to his bed; he has seen much that is worrisome in three-and-seventy years, and trusts to the goodness of Providence. My mother is less sanguine. She starts, and weeps upon our bedroom stoop, and wrings her hands for lack of anything better; and permits the grossest fancies to unnerve her sense. “But do you think her quite “She “Perhaps my wool wrap, placed over the coverlet? For cold is ever a danger in such cases, as you will remember. Miss Tate was carried off in a matter of hours, for want of extra bedclothes, and Miss Campbell in but a week, for having got wet through in a sudden rain; and how her mother survived such a cruel mistake, I shall never comprehend.” “I assure you, madam, that everything will be done to sustain Cassandra's comfort,” I replied, stemming my impatience with difficulty. Having heard of the untimely ends of a score of young ladies among the Austen acquaintance, my tolerance for my mother was at its close. “Do you seek the chamber Mr. Sidmouth has provided for you, and rest easy in the knowledge that should we require you, you shall be summoned directly.” Though all benevolence in her distress, my mother is overcome by such tender emotions in gazing at her dearest daughter, that I fear she should prove of little aid to Cassandra, in any hour of extremity. Better that I should sit watch by my sister alone, and my mother find some comfort in sleep's oblivion. But it required a full quarter-hour, and the recollection of the fates of both young Master and Miss Holder, who met their ends some three years past, before she would at last seek her bed. Cassandra is stirring now, and calls my name; I set aside my pen and journal and reach for her hand. A touch alone suffices; we two are so familiar to each other, from the happy intimacy of our minds and hearts, that at the pressure of my fingertips upon her brow, her troubled mind relaxes. A moment more, and she slumbers deep, the pain of injury forgotten. I regain my seat, and take up my pen and modest book — formed, according to my habit, from a sheaf of paper sewn quite through and trimmed to manageable size. A stout book, for the stoutest of thoughts; and of considerable comfort, in serving as confidante when no living mind may answer. All around us the eaves of the old farmhouse creak with the violence of the wind, but the intimates of High Down Grange are lost in storm-filled slumber — no sound emanates from the shuttered rooms, so that I might be the last soul alive, left here at the edge of the world. Beyond is darkness, and cliffs, and the depthless sea; England is to my back as 1 sit by Cassandra's bed. And so I cross the room to peer out at the unknown, stretching before me like all the days I have yet to live; and can discern nothing beyond my own wavering reflection in the window's glass. A shiver — of foreboding, perhaps — at the hidden landscape, and I would turn away to find comfort in candlelight. But a sudden flare in the darkness below seizes my gaze; I peer more closely, my eyes narrowing, and discern the bob of a lanthorn. A lanthorn just come up over the cliffs edge in the distance, and toiling even now towards the Grange itself. A curiously-shaped lanthorn, perhaps, with a protuberant spout, of a utility unknown to me? Clutched in an angel's ethereal hand, while the other flutters at the nape of a flowing red cloak? |
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