Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [118]
I remain, etc.,
Lt. Thomas Hearst
“Damnable coward!” I exclaimed, forgetting myself in my anger, and employing such terms as my sailor brothers might, when similarly pressed; “he has killed himself rather than learn that he is cashiered. A ridiculous waste of a young life—and for what? Honour. The concerns of men are past all understanding!” In great perturbation of spirit, I crumpled the letter in my palm and turned away from Eliza and Mr. Cranley, my boots ringing upon the marble of Scargrave's entryway.
“But does he admit to murdering the Earl and the maid?” Eliza persisted.
“The suicide smacks strongly of the presumption,” Mr. Cranley said.
I hastened to disabuse him. “The Lieutenant never mentions the murders, or any part he might have played on behalf of another; and with his death, all hope of further elucidation in that quarter must be finished.” Of Tom Hearst's tender words for myself, I said nothing; I had not yet learned to comprehend them. “Though we may feel as strongly persuaded as ever of his motives, his opportunity, and his guilt, we shall never have proof.”
“We might yet present his end as a part of our defence,” Mr. Cranley said, with evident hope.
“It is a pity.” Eliza's cherry mouth was pursed, and she tapped her lips with an elegant finger. “Since he planned to end his life, the poor man might readily have taken the blame, and allowed the others to go free. There is a certain selfishness about the act, would not you agree, Jane?”
“AH suicide is selfish,” I said, distractedly, “it is only a question of degree. I fear poor Fanny will feel it most strongly.”
“Miss Delahoussaye—was she—” Mr. Cranley began, and then faltered, blushing crimson.
“She was not formally engaged,” I said carefully, “but I believe she had reached a certain understanding with the young man.”
“From her grief, I had assumed as much,” the barrister said, his face crestfallen; “there is no answer to such anguish.”
“You may find, Mr. Cranley,” I said, not unkindly, “that where Miss Delahoussaye is concerned, time is your friend.”
5 January 1803, coat.
˜
When Eliza had made her adieux, I BADE MR. CRANLEY wait for me in the study, and returned with some hesitation to the Delahoussayes. Fanny and Madame were the centre of a hovering group, encompassed of Simmons, the butler, and two of the upper housemaids, who held steaming basins and compresses at the ready. But at my entrance, poor Fanny raised a streaming face, and breaking from her mother's embrace, extended her hand. “Oh, Miss Austen!” she cried, as she gripped my fingers in hers, “is not this dreadful news? No one but you can know how dreadful!”
“I am sure you excite yourself unnecessarily, Fanny,” Madame said, with ringing disapproval. “Tom Hearst is hardly worth such a display, as he has shown in his manner of departing this life. Did I not fear to upset you further, I should rejoice at this news.”
Fanny's only answer was a redoubled expression of grief, and Madame raised her hands in consternation.
“And from this, Miss Austen, we may learn the value of novels,” she said, to my mystification, “for only from the produce of such cheap pens as the novel-publishers employ, could my daughter have learned to indulge such an unfortunate sensibility. She is all romantic airs, and no sense; but perhaps, now that the Lieutenant's unwholesome influence is removed, we might hope for an improvement in time.”
“And did the Lieutenant read novels, Madame?” I enquired in exasperation, and bent to bestow my interest on a more worthy subject. Poor Fanny clung pitifully to me, and quite stained my grey wool gown with the force of her tears; her mother snorted in contempt, and rose without another word.
“I can do nothing with her, Miss Austen,” she said, forcing a passage through the maids; “perhaps you shall have better luck. I shall be in my room, if Fanny returns to her senses.”
I patted the poor creature's back, and spoke such soothing