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I set down the letter with hands that would tremble. Smythe had been in Overton; and Madam’s horse had been frighted by a shot from the hedgerow at Overton Hill’s summit. James could tell me nothing of dates; but I remembered Lord Harold’s opinion of coincidence, and knew that though I should never possess what Mr. Elliot should describe as proof, I had learned the name of A
Nothing should be simpler, than the achievement of the deed. Smythe had only to conceal himself in the hedgerow for the purpose, and fire a gun lent to him by Hugh Conyngham. For the precarious seat of ladies forced to ride side-saddle was everywhere acknowledged — and Madam’s ruin was certain. He might as readily have pointed the gun at her heart.
“What a commendable letter, Jane,” Cassandra observed, “in its closing passages, particularly. I can never like my brother’s style or sentiments — he has grown too pompous with the advance of years, and his preferment in his profession — but his concern for your reputation is quite honestly expressed. He might have been altogether a different man, perhaps, if — that is to say—” Her voice trailed abruptly away.
“Altogether different, had A
“Can you not confide in me, Jane, the reason for your attention to Madam Lefroy’s passing?”
I avoided my sister’s eye. “There is nothing very extraordinary in it, surely? We must all of us feel the most lively interest on the subject.”
“I ca
“You must not importune me, Cassandra,” I replied. “We all of us have different ways of grieving, and of making our last farewells. And now I think I should like to walk a little in the Crescent, and take a breath of air. Would you consent to accompany me, my dear?”
• • •
WE SAT DOWN TO AN EARLY DINNER, AS IS USUAL WITH the Austens; but a pull of the bell not long thereafter brought a note addressed to myself, and in Lord Harold’s crabbed hand. I was summoned to drink the season’s cheer and Lady Desdemona’s health, in Laura Place at eight o’clock.
“Tea!” my mother exclaimed. “Had they considered you this morning, it might as well have been di
“Indeed, ma’am, I am sure you mistake,” I calmly replied. “At her time in life, the Duchess has no very great love of distinction; and being formerly of less than the first rank herself, is more inclined to show interest than disdain for ladies with modest prospects. I would be gratified to drink her tea, I assure you.”
“Oh, well — if you must throw yourself in his lordship’s way, it ca
IT WAS A SELECT AND EVEN ELEGANT PARTY THAT GATHERED in Laura Place this evening — the Duchess seated in comfortable intimacy with Lord Harold, while Lady Desdemona provoked the Earl and her brother to rueful laughter at the opposite end of the room. Miss Wren held down the middle part, established over her fringe— and at first I feared I should fall victim to her desire for a confidante, and learn every syllable of the abuse she must suffer, now Mona was to go away, and leave Miss Wren quite at the Dowager’s mercy — but at length, the young lady herself condescended to open the pianoforte, and required Miss Wren to turn the pages. Lady Desdemona commenced a Scotch air, her sweet voice swelling with pathos; and as if drawn by an invisible chord, the Earl moved close to the instrument to gaze upon his beloved.
“You will recollect, Jane, that I said I would not have my Mona thrown away,” Lord Harold observed as he came to stand by my side. “I ca
“But you, however, ca
A swift look, as swiftly averted. “No,” Trowbridge replied. “I have had news this evening, my dear Jane, that must weigh heavily upon me. Maria Conyngham is dead.”
“Dead!”
“She hanged herself at Ilchester — tore the flounces from her gown, it seems, and wound them into a noose. Her brother is said to be mad with grief, and screaming vengeance on my head.”
We were silent a moment; and in the confusion of my thoughts I heard Lady Desdemona’s voice — simple, pure, and joyous without reckoning. “You ca
“I wonder, Jane,” Lord Harold mused. “I wonder. When I consider the Colonel, willing to risk everything to murder such a man — I ca
“So much of ruin, for a girl already gone three years to her grave, and a man not worth speaking of,” I mused.
“I imagine Maria Siddons would be gratified, did she know of it. She was, like Miss Conyngham, a creature formed for vengeance; and if Mr. Lawrence’s peace has been even a little disturbed by the threat to his person, she will be dancing tonight in heaven.”
“And what of the portrait, my lord? Maria Siddons’s malevolent eye?”
“It shall be returned, of course, to her mother — though I must admit to the temptation of tossing it in the river. Such ill-fortuned baubles should be entombed with their subjects.”
“—Excepting, perhaps, Mr. Lawrence’s sketch of Maria Conyngham?”
Lord Harold’s eyes failed to meet my own. I had observed him to secure the impassioned likeness within his coat the morning of our visit to the painter’s rooms, and I must suppose his lordship to retain it still; but I could hardly expect him to declare as much. Impertinence is usually met by Lord Harold with an impenetrable silence, as I had occasion to know; and the present instance would not warrant an exception.