Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

Chapter 17 The Hothouse Flower

2 January 1803

LONDON'S AFTERNOON FOG CURLS NOW BEYOND Scargrave House's many windows, blotting out the forms of carriage and horse as they pass in the street below. There is a like obscurity in my soul, a darkness bred of too much sadness; I have spent the better part of the morning enshrouded in perpetual night, in the depths of Newgate prison. That I rejoice in my deliverance from that place, I need hardly add, but for my heartache at leaving Isobel a prisoner within its walls. But I carry something of Newgate with me still, in the grime and odour of its interior, which sits heavily upon my person.

I have ordered a hot bath, the better to rid myself of the unwholesome stench. Part refuse, part excrement, part human despair, it is noisome, indeed; and I was driven so wild by the foetidness during my return in Mr. Cranley's coach, that I barely stopped at Scargrave House's door to shed my pelisse and bonnet before hastening upstairs to my room. That the Earl's smart Town butler, Simmons — as unlike poor Cobblestone in his youth and vigour as Scargrave House is to the Manor — detected a certain ripeness in my scent, I little doubt, from the curling of his nostrils as I entered; he held my outer garments with the tips of his exquisitely gloved fingers, and hastened to pass them to a housemaid, with a frosty injunction that they should be “brushed.” Brushed, indeed! A se'nnight's immersion in hot lye and ashes would be unlikely to rid them of Newgate's pollution. But I had dressed in my oldest things, foreseeing how it should be; and could hardly lament the loss of so small a part of my wardrobe in such a cause.

And now the maids have come, with steaming coppers held high, and pronounced the water as yet too hot for my liking. So I have drawn out my journal, and put pen to paper, in the hope of fixing indelibly my impression of that hellish place in which I spent but a few hours. The horror shall pass from my mind with time; but I would retain something of it here, to harden my resolve when despair at Isobel's fate threatens to overcome me. I know her to be innocent, and will not suffer her to spend a minute more than she must in so terrible a hole.

Mr. Cranley was as good as his word, and arrived not long after the breakfast hour — half-past eight, by the great clock that relentlessly chimes the quarters in Scargrave House's entry. His face wore a dubious aspect, and he would have dissuaded me from my visit; but that firmness of purpose, where I know myself to be right, overruled all objection.

I wore my most serviceable gown, a warm wool worsted of dark blue, and my stoutest boots, as though intending a walk over country stiles; and of these I read the barrister's approval as he surveyed my form.

“A clergyman's daughter, you say?” He smiled despite the sombre nature of our errand. “I should almost have thought your father a Colonel, Miss Austen, and yourself well hardened to the privations of campaign.”

“Parish work may be as arduous, and its contests as bitter, as the mounting of a siege,” I replied, pulling on my gloves. “Have you never been forced, Mr. Cranley, to parcel out the parts in a Christmas pageant, and suffer calumny and abuse for the neglect of some worthy's darling child? But enough. The Countess awaits us.”

“Her ladyship cannot do much else,” he replied grimly, assisting me into his carriage, “more's the pity. Had she occupation for her thoughts, she might bear her circumstances better.”

I stopped, half in the carriage, half out, and stared at him in consternation. “You mean she has nothing of an amusing nature by her?”

“Amusing? I should think not.”

I turned abruptly and stepped down, my feet as swift as my thoughts. “Do you wait a moment, Mr. Cranley,” I declared. “I know the very article to cheer her.”

WE WERE NOT LONG ON OUR WAY TO NEWGATE, IT BEING situated to the east of Portman Square, near the old walls of the City. In a different time, the Earl and the Countess might have been conveyed to the Tower, there to be lodged in chilly dignity appropriate to their station, though offering no more comfort than the prison thrown up in its shadow. As we approached Newgate, I quailed to think of the scaffold that might be erected before its doors, should Isobel be condemned to die. A public execution, with all the humiliation and popular carousing that habitually attends a Hanging Day, was too horrible to contemplate. I turned to Mr. Cranley. “Is it likely, my good sir — if it be that we fail in our efforts to prove the Countess's innocence — must she certainly hang?”

For the space of several heartbeats, the barrister offered no answer, his eyes upon the gloomy walls of the approaching prison. At last he turned to me with sober mien. “The courts are loath to impose such a sentence upon a woman,” he replied, “but the deliberate murder of one's husband — particularly a gentleman of the Earl's station — is not a clergyable offence.[40] I fear, Miss Austen, that we have no alternative but to prove the Countess's innocence. And the Earl's as well.”

The carriage loitered before Newgate's stone gate, and Mr. Cranley jumped out, with a hand for me as I descended. We stopped an instant in silence before those dreadful walls, overlaid with writhing gargoyles and hung with chains; and then a wicket was slid back in the massive oak itself. We were treated to a beefy visage, with a patch over one eye, and a mouth possessed of very few teeth.

“Do you wait a moment, Miss Austen, while I speak to the porter,” Mr. Cranley told me, and approached the prison gate. His conversation was swiftly conducted — through the passage of coin from his hand to the other's — and the heavy gate swung open. We were led within the courtyard, cobbled and streaming from the residue of London's fogs; I suffered to think of Isobel's arrival here, a lonely object of contempt, without much of hope to sustain her. It was but another moment before we gained admittance from a trusty at the prison door, and were inside.”

How to relate the scene that greeted us?

A narrow, windowless, low-ceilinged place, lit only by torchlight, the better to obscure years of grime and a scurrying at our feet — undoubtedly from rats. An air so thick with smoke and odour as to be suffocating. A repeated clanging about the ears, from bolts drawn back or driven home — Kr, worse yet, from manacles shaken in despair. I looked about me furtively, not wishing to appear shocked, but Mr. Cranley divined my emotion.

“There is time yet to go back,” he said gently. “I would not think less of you, Miss Austen, did you call for my carriage.”

“Nonsense,” I replied, and affected an air of greater strength than I assuredly felt.

We were placed in the safekeeping of a man Mr. Cranley addressed as Crow, a peculiar person of stunted appearance, with an enormous nose and a heavy growth of dark hair, much matted. He wore on his person an astonishing number of garments, of varying stuffs and sizes — a veritable rag-picker's fortune, to my untrained eye. I learned later from Mr. Cranley that it was Crow's custom to buy the clothes of condemned men, piece by piece, in the days before their execution; the poor souls being desperate for some last sustenance, they were willing to barter all that they owned for the promise of good ale and maggotless bread. I am relieved I knew nothing of the origin of our guide's motley wardrobe, while still in his presence; for I fear I could not have repressed my disgust.

Crow conducted us through a passage so dark and narrow, it barely permitted the span of Mr. Cranley's shoulders, and as the walls were damp with mould, I feared for the barrister's good wool coat. Our guide's taper cast flickering shadows as he progressed before us, as comfortable with his lot as one of the Duchess of Wilborough's footmen. We mounted stairs, and followed still more endless corridors, and glimpsed leering faces from occasional barred doors; a fearful babble assailed our ears, part moan, part feverish talk, part muttered curse.

Our guide stopped short before a door, the taper making a grotesquerie of his bulbous nose and thatch of greasy hair. He fumbled at the waists of his many pairs of breeches, and came up with a large key; which, fitted into the lock, succeeded in turning the bolt. I peered timidly about me. Could Isobel really be lodged within?

She was.

Crow threw wide the heavy door and preceded us into the chamber, his face set in a lascivious grin; and upon following Mr. Cranley across the threshold, I quickly perceived the reason.

All manner of strumpet and pickpocket and gypsy beggar were housed within the room — women blowsy and ragged, tall and short, comely and fearsome to look upon. Some seven were confined together in a space perhaps fifteen feet square; they huddled upon the ground in attitudes of dejection, or stood brazenly in groups, conversing with as much ease as though walking the Strand of a Saturday afternoon. One of these last, a snaggle-toothed hag, sallied up to Crow and ran her fingers through his dirty locks, with a leer to match his own.

“Eh, luv,” she cackled, “whattuv you brought us tidday? Summat nice?”

“Leave off, Nance,” the gaoler said, thrusting her backwards with a cuff to the head; “I've business with the lady.”

“The lady, is it? Ho ho.” Nance ran her eyes the length of my gown, with remarkable impertinence for one of her station, and spat upon the ground. “That's for ladies, that is.”

Mr. Cranley offered the protection of his arm, and led me to a door in the far wall opening into another chamber. There, in a darkened, corner, I discovered the Countess. Isobel sat upon the ground, her arms hugging her breast, as though that pitiful gesture might offer some protection from the nightmare of her circumstance; she raised a face suffused with dumb suffering at our approach, and her brown eyes widened with horror.

“Jane!” she whispered hoarsely. “How come you to be here? And witnessing my shame!” She looked wildly about, and struggled to her feet, as if to fly from our sight.

“My dear girl,” I said affectionately, taking both her hands in mine, “I see no shame, only great forbearance in the midst of so much misfortune. Your courage is a credit to your name, Isobel — your friends can only honour you.”

“One friend, at least, I have,” she cried, and gripped me in a fierce embrace. Mr. Cranley shut the door of Isobel's cell upon Nance and her confederates, then hovered on the periphery, his eyes averted, until recalled to attention by the Countess's hand.

“And you, Mr. Cranley,” she said, in a softened tone; “most excellent of barristers, and a true gentleman. I am fortunate, indeed, in your friendship. But you seem distressed, good sir.”

“I am only outraged, my lady,” Mr. Cranley said, “in witnessing your continued degradation. I had ordered Snatch to obtain more suitable lodgings for you, and the man has expressly violated the terms of our agreement.”

Isobel looked away, and raised a hand to her eyes; then faced us with better composure. “I believe the man Crow is incapable of honour, Mr. Cranley. You are well advised to bargain with his superiors, if you wish to waste your coin. But do not concern yourself with me. I care little for which room in hell I may call my own; none is likely to offer comfort.”

I surveyed the Countess with profound emotion, unwilling to imagine the trials she had already undergone. Her simple dress of black wool was soiled and torn; whose hands had offended her person I could readily guess, having viewed the gauntlet of her cellmates. Her hair was tangled and dirty, and a fearful smell emanated from the folds of her clothes. She was sunk indeed from the wealth and consequence that had been hers but a few weeks before. I embraced her again, overcome with pity.

“I fear we cannot remain much longer, Miss Austen,” Mr. Cranley said gently.

“Isobel,” I said, “we will have you out of this fearsome place, with your innocence proved and your good name restored. Never doubt that all our benevolence is active on your behalf. Let hope sustain you in this, your darkest hour; we shall see you freed, and Fitzroy Payne with you.”

“Do not speak his name, Jane. I wish never to hear it again.”

I gazed at her averted face and bitter eyes, profoundly disturbed. What fury is love that believes itself betrayed!

“I shall be very much surprised, Isobel, to discover him anything but as innocent as yourself; and in time, you may find in that as much hope as for your own cause.”

She bit her lip, and turned to me with emotion. At a nod from Mr. Cranley, I reluctantly released her; but remembered to press upon my friend the book I had fetched at the very carriage door. It was my most treasured novel — Cecilia, by Miss Fanny Burney — as certain a mental diversion as one could find, in so terrible a place. But Isobel refused it, with an eye to the women beyond her door, and the treacherous Crow.

“Do you keep it safe, dear Jane,” she told me softly. “I shall hope to enjoy its delights in a better time.”

“MR. CRANLEY,” I SAID THOUGHTFULLY, WHEN CROW HAD led us to the street, “we must endeavour to find a reason for the Countess to hope.”

“I agree, Miss Austen. But whence that hope might spring, I cannot say.”

“A renewed faith in the Earl might engender it. Did the Countess think his soul less black, she might suffer less despair.”

Mr. Cranley helped me into his carriage, and stood by the door; and I understood then he would not accompany me on my return to Scargrave House.

“You must descend once more into that hell?” I enquired, in some distress.

“I must meet with the Earl, Miss Austen; and no lady may be permitted in a cell such as his,” the barrister replied grimly. “I fear I have some business with the prison's governor as well, if I can but persuade him to hear me. The Countess and the Earl must be moved to more decent rooms, though a fortune be spent to achieve it.”

“You are goodness itself.”

“I only do what is required — what any gentleman of feeling would do.”

“Most gentlemen of feeling would hardly think a month's ablutions enough to rid them of Newgate's stains,” I replied dryly. “I remain convinced of your worth, my dear sir.”

He inclined his head, somewhat embarrassed, and I moved on with energy to my more important purpose. “Mr. Cranley,” I said, “when you speak with Fitzroy Payne, do you enquire as to his methods of correspondence.”

“His methods?”

“Indeed — what records of letters sent and received he may retain; whether he logs his postage; and particularly enquire if he makes copies of those missives he writes.”

Comprehension dawned upon the barrister's face. “You think of the scrap found in the maid's bodice.”

I nodded. “Could we but show that paper to have been taken from some part of the Earl's correspondence, his guilt in having written it might seem less heavy. For any might have sent the note to Marguerite. It cannot be proved that the Earl did so. What indicts him is his hand; the writing is surely his. We must endeavour to show that it was intended for another, and appeared upon the maid only by misadventure.”

The light in Mr. Cranley's eyes was enough to satisfy me; that we should soon know all we must about Fitzroy Payne's business, I little doubted, and rejoiced in the excellent understanding of Isobel's defender.

Later that day

I WAS TREATED AFTER DINNER TO AN EXTRAORDINARY interview with Miss Fanny Delahoussaye, and am so far from understanding what it may mean, that I write down the essence of it, in the hopes that by so doing, I may better comprehend it.

I had retired to the pianoforte, in an effort to improve my mastery of Mr. Haydn's airs, and reflect upon all that has occurred, when I was surprised by Miss Delahoussaye's appearance at my side. A band of jet beads was drawn across her brow, with a plume behind, and she was resplendent in a dinner gown of black sarcenet. I knew that she looked forward eagerly to her visit on the morrow to Madame Henri's, that breathlessly fashionable modiste of Bond Street, and assumed that she wished to bend my ear, the better to glory in her good fortune.

“Miss Austen,” said she, in a far warmer accent than has distinguished our acquaintance thus far, “may I persuade you to take a turn about the Orangerie? I do not believe you have yet viewed its delights. In such a season as this, when the streets are impassable, a greenhouse must be preferred above all other amusement. I am sure you should like it of all things.”

I saw no reason to hold myself aloof, and gladly consented. The Orangerie was a folly of the sixth Earl, the late Lord Scargrave's father, whose wife was French; he is said to have drawn the structure from the likeness of one on the grounds of Versailles, before that noble palace's destruction at the hands of the French rabble. A quantity and variety of plants are grown in its hothouse atmosphere, such as are rarely met with. The late Earl shared in his father's interest, botany being yet another of his passions; no plant was too costly or too rare for his procuring.

“Mr. Cranley seems a respectable sort of fellow, for a barrister,” Fanny began, as we strolled the moist aisles, smelling of green; “you might almost set your cap at him, had you sufficient time, Miss Austen. His profession is not abhorrent to you, and his prospects must be declared quite good — at least, for one of your — that is, quite good, indeed.”

“I think Mr. Cranley would prefer that you secure him, Miss Delahoussaye. He was all admiration while you retained the room.”

“You are a sly creature, Miss Austen! But do call me Fanny,” she said, slipping her arm through mine. I had not the slightest inclination to proceed to further intimacy in such a manner, and so did not offer her my Christian name. “I have been longing for the chance to walk with you alone, for I am in a sad turmoil of mind, and the wisdom of such an one as yourself — so much my senior in age and experience — must be a source of comfort.”

So much her senior, indeed! The eight years’ difference in our ages is hardly the stuff of a generation; but I could not expect Miss Delahoussaye to refrain from malice, when an opportunity for abuse presented itself.

“Such advice as I can give, I will gladly offer; although I must consider our acquaintance as so slight, as to recommend some other party to your interest.”

“Our acquaintance slight! I declare! It was not five minutes after your arrival at Scargrave that I felt assured you would be the salvation of my visit to that dreary place, and perhaps the means of securing that felicity — but I am too precipitate. I impose upon your kindness. I had better explain the nature of my distress.”

“To be sure,” I said, somewhat bewildered.

“You cannot have been long in the company of Lieutenant Hearst without remarking his extraordinary ability to please,” she began, with a sidelong glance. “I am sure you cannot.”

“He is a charming fellow.” And so this is how she intended to broach my indiscretion of New Year's Eve. I had almost succeeded in forgetting it.

“Charming! He is all that is attentive and engaging. And such modesty! Such diffidence! He never comprehends the effect his openness and amiability have on the ladies of his acquaintance. I know that many an one has been persuaded to think too much of his notice, his conversation, his little habits of attention, before this.” She stopped to caress a blooming plant with one finger. “I am very much afraid that it has caused many to regret their having hoped for so much, upon discovering he intended too little. La, an orchid in January! I declare, an orchid is pleasanter than anything in the world.”

And so, I thought, taking the import of her first words, I am warned off. Even a second son of a wastrel is too good for a Miss Austen, without fortune or connexion to recommend her. I could not but think a primary object of Fanny's confidence was to apprise me of my danger in encouraging Lieutenant Hearst's attentions; by suggesting his fickleness, she hoped to wound me, and thus win his attention for herself. Though she lacks the appearance of jealousy, her character suggests she cannot be immune to its bite. But how amusing that she should feel that emotion towards me, when I had despaired of my power before one of her beauty and fortune!

“As a woman so much older than yourself, I must own I have encountered men as charming as the Lieutenant elsewhere,” I said carefully. “Amiable as he may be, I have seen his equal before. Your more sheltered life to date must excuse you.”

At this, she coloured prettily. “I may express too great a partiality for the Lieutenant,” she said. “How else can one who is promised to him be expected to regard him, but as the epitome of all that is good and admirable in a man?” “Promised!” I cried, attempting in vain to recover my wits. “I had not an idea of it! And your mother approves?”

“Oh, Lord! Mamma knows nothing about it,” Fanny said composedly. “The match is unlikely to meet with favour from her, any more than it would have won Isobel's consent — and you know, Isobel's father was my guardian, and at his death the charge passed to her, until I should marry or reach the age of twenty-five. My Uncle John Collins had long acted in lieu of my father, and had strongly advised my mother to find me a husband befitting my fortune — I am possessed of no less than thirty thousand pounds. Me so far persuaded Mamma of the sum's significance, and warned her so repeatedly against fortune hunters, that she will not have me even dance with any man who can claim less than five or ten thousand a year, much less a second son.”

“You do not share her scruple?”

“Where love exists, how can fortune matter?”

How, indeed! Fortune, or lack of it, has been the main impediment to every trifling attachment of my life; it was certainly the means of dividing me from my first love, and my truest — Tom Lefroy.[41] Young as we both were, I do not believe we lacked anything conducive to our mutual affection and happiness, but fortune. But I forbore to give way to self-pity, and agreed with Miss Delahoussaye that her comfortable means must allow her to bestow her affections where her heart chose.

“And you have been promised to the Lieutenant how long?”

“These three weeks.”

Three weeks. His attentions to me must, therefore, have been as nothing; I had been deceived by flattery yet again. It is not to be borne!

“I declare,” Miss Delahoussaye said expansively, “but it is a change! I have been wild about Tom for ages, but he was ever of a mind to abuse me unmercifully; and there was a time last summer when I almost thought him promised to a Miss King, and gave him up for lost. But apparently that went off, and when he came to us at Scargrave, there was never a man more attentive! I must believe it the effect of my purple silk; it is a cunning gown, and might almost make my eyes the same shade.”

I made some answer, equal to her speech in its lack of sense, and she continued almost without pause.

“Mamma thought nothing of his presence at the house, it being taken up with mourning; and he would look glum as all whenever she appeared, and pretend to dance attendance on you, only to brighten immediately once she was out of sight, and profess himself violently in love! A capital scheme, I declare! Only now there is the trial, and Tom and I must live apart, and barely speak; not a ball are we to have, or any amusement—”

“Miss Delahoussaye,” I interrupted, “I fail to see where my advice is wanted.”

“But you must tell me what to do!”

“In what manner may I be of assistance?”

“Tom — Lieutenant Hearst — was to go to Isobel the night the Earl died. We had determined that she should be told, whether she should give her consent or no, and that we should be married after Christmas if we must go to Gretna Green to do it.” Her words were unusually vehement.

I confess to a quickening of my pulse. “And did Lieutenant Hearst obtain his interview?”

“I cannot make out whether he did, but it cannot signify now. Isobel is past all consent, and cannot plague us any longer. But it is Mamma I think of; and I cannot believe she will see reason until the marriage is made.”

“I cannot stand in lieu of either, Miss Delahoussaye, if it is consent you seek.”

“But here is the point, Miss Austen. Tom will have us marry as soon as possible — he is wild to get me, I own. And now we are in mourning, and the trial is soon to happen — I declare I am almost distracted! For how am I to marry when the whole world is set against it?”

I confessed that even my age and experience had failed to teach me ways to circumvent such convention; but I ventured the opinion that a marriage within six weeks of the trial might not be considered ill, if it were conducted quietly and without undue pomp. At this Fanny seemed reassured, and professed her unshakable intent of waiting for Lieutenant Hearst until they could hir away to Gretna Green.

Having had time to absorb this news, along with its implicit warning against such things as kisses in the moonlight, I was possessed of a new thought.

“The maid Marguerite knew of your plans, did she not?” I enquired.

Miss Fanny started, and all the delicate colour of her soft complexion drained from her face. “She never told you!” she cried in protest.

I adopted an all-encompassing wisdom as my best deceit.

“But of course,” I said. “You did not think your secret died with her?”

At this, Fanny's breath quickened and the tears started to her eyes; she sat down upon a stone bench and was quite overcome. I suffered from some perplexity — for I had referred to nothing more than a planned elopement, the fact of which she had just imparted. Such distress could hardly spring from this. The secret, then, was of far greater import; and it behooved me to learn it. I sat down at her side and placed an arm about her shoulders.

“You need not pay me to keep your confidence, Fanny,” I told her. “J do not expect a bag of coins by the hay-shed door.”

She lifted her pretty face, tear-stained and miserable, and stared at me wildly. “But you understand, then, why we must be married as soon as ever,” she said. “In very little time, my gowns shall hardly fit. Already Marguerite has had to let out the seams; and she tried to ruin me for her knowledge. Now Mamma would have us at the warehouses for our mourning, and I must have a gown for the House of Lords, and if I stand before a seamstress, she is sure to know in an instant!”

I perceived, at last, the trouble. “When is the child to be born?” I asked her.

Fanny shrugged helplessly. “How should I know? I have no experience of these things. I only know that my corset does not fit, and that my seams are bursting, and that I have felt decidedly unwell these past few weeks. Marguerite said my time should not come until July at least. But she may have been lying.” A pair of drowned blue eyes sought my own. “Deceit and self-interest were ever Marguerite's way, Miss Austen.” Fanny's voice held unaccustomed bitterness.

“You met with the Lieutenant while still in London,” I mused. “After Isobel's marriage — while she travelled abroad.”

“It was better that she be ignorant of our concerns,” Fanny replied, her eyes downcast. “She did not approve of my meeting Tom.”

And with good reason, I thought, remembering the click of Fanny's door several nights past; had the Lieutenant entered her room, even as he parted from me? His conduct was in every way infamous. And here, assuredly, was a powerful motive for murdering the maid and dropping Isobel's kerchief; by these vile actions, Fanny's blackmailer should be dispatched, and her guardian silenced. But what of the damning note in Fitzroy Payne's hand?

Poor Fanny was in no state to be further interrogated; I patted her shoulder, said a few words, and helped her to her feet. We parted at the Orangerie door, she to trip deceitfully to her Mamma, and I to seek my chamber and my pen with a heavy heart.

I CANNOT CONSIDER THE MATCH WITHOUT SOME LITTLE dismay. It has been long, indeed — despite my capricious words to Fanny Delahoussaye — since I encountered a man of Lieutenant Hearst's easy manners and amiability, however false his intentions; and it seems I am forever to witness such men apportioned to an other. I confess to indulging in a review of my affairs of the heart, and wondering for the thousandth time if I did wrong in refusing Harris Bigg-Wither; to avoid the continued painful recognition of all I have been denied, in finally accepting some one, would be relief enough from a lifetime of bitter disappointments.

And I am all wonder at Lieutenant Hearst's behaviour! He has snubbed Fanny, and sought my company over hers, whenever opportunity afforded. Were I his professed love, I should find his conduct reprehensible. Was this merely a shadow play as she described, intended to deceive others and fend off the suspicious in his family circle? If so, I can declare Tom Hearst to have engaged in it too heartily, and feel myself to be a laughing-stock. It would have been enough to speak of Miss Delahoussaye with neutral praise, such as any man might bestow; whereas he never missed an opportunity for raillery. Her infatuation with himself, her false pride, her preoccupation with clothes and self-importance — all have been the subject of his disparagement in the course of our riding lessons together. I cannot comprehend it. I might almost believe him regretting his choice; and if he feels so little respect for a woman whose charms alone may have quickened his interest, I cannot feel sanguine about his prospects for happiness in marriage.

And did the Lieutenant obtain his interview with Isobel that e'en? And an opportunity, perhaps, to place the Barbadoes nuts in the Earl's dish?

Isobel is past all consent, Miss Delahoussaye had said; and indeed, my friend is now conveniently incapable of opposing the match, and the bestowing of Miss Delahoussaye's thirty thousand pounds. I wonder she could not be persuaded that the marriage would keep Fanny's fortune in the Scargrave family, and thus be made to look with favour on the union; but perhaps that did not serve Lieutenant Hearst's purpose. Isobel — and Fitzroy Payne — would undoubtedly have tied the money in such legal binds as made it virtually useless to him; and it may be that it is cash for which Tom Hearst seeks. And if it be that the gentleman is in desperate need of money, I must consider his appearance of guilt as black, indeed.

Or am I merely comforting myself with the thought that he chooses Miss Delahoussaye for her fortune, rather than any preference over myself? Stupid, stupid Jane! Your vanity rises again, even in the hour of its most thorough defeat.

Can such a man, whose fine appearance and good humour suggest all that is pleasing, be so infinitely dissembling? I declare his charm, and think him a murderer; I encourage his attentions, and find him promised to another. Were I acquainted with his person a twelvemonth, and had ample scope for observation, I should believe myself still as likely to be deceived. No, I shall not begin to understand it, be Miss Fanny Delahoussaye turned Mrs. Tom Hearst, and her third child on the way.