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By Root 287 0

clean of snow; and a passage of sorts cleared by carriage wheels along the drive. I hesitated an instant, considering the security afforded by an adjacent shrubbery, but suspecting it to be still enshrouded in drifts, I set off determinedly down the lane. A walk that has served daily to relieve a mind so sunk in melancholy as Mr. George Hearst's, should undoubtedly offer excellent advantage to the happier spirits of Miss Austen. But after a little I stopped short, and turned back to survey the Manor; a gloomy picture in the afternoon light it made, with the Scargrave hatchments2 mounted above its many windows. Fully forty-five of these I counted off, in three storeys of fifteen, marching across the facade with a glint of glass and leading; but the effect remained merely dismal where it intended to be imposing. Built, so Isobel informs me, in the reign of Elizabeth, Scargrave Manor has been “improved” within an inch of its life on too many past occasions; it is now such a mixture of Tudor and Jacobean, with a bit of Inigo Jones thrown in for good measure, as to be a veritable Tower of architectural Babel.

I put the Manor to my back, and, since an aimless walk cannot hope to please, determined to make Scargrave Cottage my object—though with no intention of disturbing its occupants, the Hearsts; I desired some solitude, the better to consider the import of the maid Marguerite's latest letter. But I had no sooner summoned the Hearsts to my thoughts, than I espied a lonely black figure some distance before me, all but indistinguishable from the darker ranks of trees that lined the drive. The very Mr. Hearst, engaged in his habitual ramble! I faltered, and strained to make out his features; but his head was bent in thought, his countenance obscured. Should I turn back, or attempt to converse with the gentleman? I had little relish for the latter task. But I recalled the gravity of Sir William's parting look, and considered Isobel's unhappiness—two thoughts that could not but hasten me along my way. Did the Earl meet his end by violence, all within the Manor's walls must be suspect; and Mr. Hearst, at least, had quarrelled with his uncle the very night of that gentleman's untimely end. His low spirits were assuredly fled on that occasion; for something very like passion had animated Mr. Hearst's bitter gibes.

The incipient curate's strides outstripped my own, and the way being decidedly encumbered by mud and wet snow, I progressed but poorly. And so, thrusting propriety to one side, I drew up my skirts and set off at a brisk trot in pursuit of Mr. Hearst. As I approached the gentleman, the ringing of my clumsy pattens upon a stone alerted him to my presence, and he turned to meet me with some surprise.

“Miss Austen!” cried he. “I did not take you for an ardent walker.”

“Indeed, sir, it is my chief enjoyment. As it appears to be your own.”

He removed his hat, and bowed, and turned back to accompany me towards the Manor. “It is very healthful, assuredly, for mind as well as body. Particularly in this season, when one is confined so much within doors. I fear that too much sitting plays poorly upon my spirits.”

“You do not ride, as your brother does?”

“I find, Miss Austen, that my brother's passions instruct him to perfection in their pursuit. And thus I cede him whatever employment he chooses to master—I do not wish to attempt to emulate him, and suffer by comparison.”

A silence then ensued, and I cast about for a means of introducing the subject of Mr. Hearst's quarrel with the Earl. How to attempt it with tact and decorum? Impossible! I should be forced to lower myself in his eyes, by appearing a malicious gossip. But what was the adoption of the meaner arts against the preservation of Isobel's peace of mind? A mere nothing.

“And are you equally passionate, Mr. Hearst, though in pursuit of that which your brother spurns? For on one occasion at least, I have heard you argue with energy.”

My words, I fear, were too oblique; and rather than respond to their import, he merely used the opportunity to distinguish himself from