“Oh, she is,” declares Mrs. Ovens. “She said she would—didn’t you, Miss Clutterbuck? She’s going to read a scene from Jane Austen.”
“Charming!” cries Mrs. Maloney.
“How delightful!” exclaims Miss Dove.
“I do adore Jane!” Mrs. Ovens declares.
Several other ladies admit to a like partiality for Miss Austen and urge Miss Clutterbuck to begin.
“All right,” says Erica—quite graciously for her—“If everybody wants me to read I suppose I’ll have to. Before I begin I’d better explain that Manders Court is the property of Mr. Rivers. Caroline Rivers is his niece and has kept house for him for some years—ever since his wife died—but now Mr. Rivers is going to marry again, so Caroline will have to leave Manders Court. Fortunately Caroline is an attractive young woman and has several suitors for her hand. The scene I am going to read takes place in the summerhouse where Caroline has an assignation with Mr. Redwell.”
There is a murmur of pleasure in the pause that follows; the ladies nod and smile and say to one another that it is a most amusing scene, one of Miss Austen’s best . . .
Mrs. Ovens is heard to remark that Caroline Rivers is her favourite amongst Miss Austen’s heroines. Miss Dove says she prefers Fanny Bennett, but agrees that Caroline is delightful, too.
Oddly enough I have no recollections of Caroline Rivers, but as I am very busy tacking Mrs. Maloney’s knickers together and showing her how to insert the gusset I have no time to think about it seriously.
Erica waits for the murmur of talk to subside; then, without more ado, she opens a large shabby volume and begins to read:
In a few moments Caroline reached the summerhouse and seating herself upon the wooden bench she endeavoured to compose her thoughts and to prepare herself for the coming interview. It was not yet half an hour since Mr. Redwell had found her in the stillroom and asked her to meet him here, but during that short period Caroline had made up her mind as to her course of action. She was aware that Mr. Redwell intended to propose (his manner had been urgent and his request for an interview had been couched in language which could leave no doubt as to its significance) and Caroline had decided to accept him. It was true that Mr. Redwell was many years older than herself, that he was dull and stupid, that his mind was exclusively occupied with the improvements which he was making upon his estate and that his appearance left much to be desired, but Caroline was willing to overlook such minor defects in a man of Mr. Redwell’s position. It was necessary that she should marry, and marry well, for she was accustomed to the comforts and conveniences of wealth without the means to gratify her taste, and as Mr. Redwell’s wife and the mistress of Fountains Place her position would be assured.
Caroline could envisage herself walking in the rose garden, sitting upon the terrace admiring the peacocks, or visiting the stables which were the admiration and envy of every gentleman in the county. She saw herself in the house itself, ordering the staff—she had already decided upon several alterations in the decoration of the drawing rooms. It would be delightful to invite the County to a dinner at which she would play the part of hostess (a part for which she was admirably fitted by nature and upbringing). Seated at the long table, glittering with silver and glass, Caroline could see herself dispensing hospitality and conversation to her assembled guests. These thoughts and visions were so extremely pleasant that Caroline had little difficulty in relegating Mr. Redwell himself to the background. It was a pity he could not be eliminated entirely from the scene, but that was not possible.
At this stage in her daydreams Caroline suddenly awoke to the realization that some time had passed and she was still alone. Four o’clock was the hour named by Mr. Redwell for the assignation, it was now twenty minutes past four and Mr. Redwell had not come. One would have expected him to be here before the time arranged, to be ready and eagerly awaiting her arrival; it was unpardonable that he should be twenty minutes late.
There has been some misunderstanding, thought Caroline and she rose to go, for she was not accustomed to be kept waiting in such an inconsiderate manner; but she had scarcely taken one step when she saw Mr. Redwell, attired for riding, hastening towards her down the path.
“Miss Rivers!” he exclaimed. “Excuse me, I beg. It was impossible for me to be here at the appointed hour. I have received a most disquieting message from Fountains Place which necessitates my immediate departure. My horse is saddled. I must go instantly. There is not a moment to lose.”
“Some accident has occurred!” cried Caroline in alarm.
“Not an accident, exactly,” replied Mr. Redwell in hurried tones. “Word has been brought that my gardeners, through some foolish misapprehension of my orders, are moving valuable plants—moving them to make room for a rockery! It is essential that they should be stopped immediately. I cannot risk sending a message which might be ignored or misunderstood. I must go myself to prevent any further mistake and to retrieve the damage if humanly possible. My acacias!” cried Mr. Redwell, almost wringing his hands in the violence of his emotion. “My beautiful acacia heterophylla which I caused to be brought from North Africa with so much trouble and expense and which only now is beginning to recover from the journey and to make good progress! How could Anderson so grievously have misunderstood my instructions! It is inconceivable!”
Caroline listened to these explanations with growing amazement. To her it was inconceivable that Mr. Redwell—or indeed any man—should be so upset over an acacia. She was aware that he took an inordinate pride in the rare plants which he had collected from all over the world and which flourished more or less successfully in the sheltered spots in his garden, for she had suffered periods of intense boredom while he recited their names and habits; she had been forced to listen while he lamented the laziness and incompetence of his gardeners or the incidence of green fly upon his roses . . . all this she had managed to endure, achieving patience by the reflection that the gardens at Fountains Place were important not only to their present owner but also to his future wife; she had even managed to persuade herself that it was for the sake of his future wife that Mr. Redwell was planning so many improvements and alterations in his domain . . . but this was too much.
“You understand, I know,” continued Mr. Redwell. “I cannot explain further. I cannot linger here, wasting time . . . and indeed there is no necessity to do so for you are a sensible woman and we understand each other perfectly. The very fact that you have come to meet me at the appointed hour shows that you have no foolish pride—and this is all to the good. Your birth and upbringing have fitted you admirably for your position as my wife and the mistress of Fountains Place. There is no more to be said . . .”
He pressed Caroline’s hand and was gone.
Caroline sank back upon the bench, agitated beyond measure at his extraordinary behaviour. Everything he had said was wrong, everything he had said and done served to show Mr. Redwell in a most unbecoming light—“I cannot linger here, wasting time.” Was it wasting time to propose with due decorum to the lady he desired to make his wife? “The very fact that you have come to meet me . . .” Could she have done less than accede to his request for an interview? “There is no more to be said.” In Caroline’s opinion there was a great deal more to be said. Mr. Redwell was taking too much for granted.
Mr. Redwell’s assumption that Caroline’s acceptance of his suit was a foregone conclusion was positively offensive to a woman of delicate taste and the more Caroline thought about it the more indignant she became. His folly disgusted her; the impropriety of his conduct was insulting; his conceit, his selfishness, his indelicacy were too flagrant to be pardoned or overlooked. It was fortunate, thought Caroline with mounting anger, it was fortunate indeed that her discovery of Mr. Redwell’s real nature had not been delayed. What misery it would have been to find herself tied to a negligent husband, to one who had no perception of values and no consideration for her feelings.
Caroline had reached this conclusion and was cong
ratulating herself upon her escape when she heard footsteps approaching and, on looking up, she saw that the invader of her privacy was Mr. Berringer. Like Mr. Redwell he was attired for riding, but there all resemblance began and ended, for Mr. Berringer was tall and dark with fine eyes and a dashing air. In any other circumstances Caroline would have welcomed the company of Mr. Berringer for they had much in common, but at the moment she would have preferred no company but her own.
“Redwell has gone,” said Mr. Berringer, pausing at the door of the summer-house and looking down at the fair occupant with an admiring gaze.
“Yes,” agreed Caroline. “Yes, he has gone.”
“He seemed in a hurry,” continued Mr. Berringer. “I heard him call for his horse. Some important matter has called him home to Fountains Place.”
“A very important matter,” agreed Caroline, trying to compose herself and to behave as if nothing had occurred to distress her.
“It must be important indeed,” declared Mr. Berringer. “I can think of nothing of less importance than a fire, than the contingency of Fountains Place being burnt to the ground and reduced to a heap of ashes which could have induced him to leave Miss Rivers sitting alone in the summerhouse.” He said this with such a droll inflexion, with such a delightful blend of gallantry and humour that Caroline found herself smiling involuntarily.
“He is gone,” continued Mr. Berringer with a gesture of his hand. “His horse is galloping furiously down the drive—it is a fire at least!”
Caroline laughed.
“But, no,” declared Mr. Berringer, looking at her carefully. “No, it cannot be a fire, Miss Rivers would find it impossible to laugh if Fountains Place were in jeopardy.”
“I have no interest in Fountains Place,” returned Caroline, blushing.
Mr. Berringer observed the blush and was silent for a few moments. When next he spoke it was with a much more serious air. “Miss Rivers,” he began in diffident tones. “Can I have understood aright? Forgive me for pressing a matter which is liable to cause you embarrassment, but I cannot leave it unexplained. Is it possible that you have refused Redwell? Is that the explanation of his hasty departure?”
“I have neither refused nor accepted his proposal,” replied Caroline in a low voice.
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Berringer. “Good Heavens, I can scarcely believe it! I was aware—forgive me but I could not help noticing that Redwell was paying you marked attention, and indeed this could cause no surprise in one who, had his circumstances been more affluent, would have been in the field himself.”
Caroline was extremely confused. She could not endure the thought of wounding Mr. Berringer’s feelings, for, although she had never for one moment envisaged Mr. Berringer as her future husband, she was by no means oblivious of his charms. It is true that these charms were not supported by wealth and position; they consisted of delightful manners, an exceedingly personable appearance and of a humour which matched her own.
“Mr. Berringer,” said Caroline at last with earnest resolution. “I will not misunderstand you and, believe me, I am indeed sensible of the honour you do me, but—”
“Miss Rivers!” he exclaimed, interrupting her with an outstretched hand. “Miss Rivers, before you say more I beg you to hear me. I beg you to allow me to speak. I have no right to ask you to consider my suit—except the right of a man who regards you with admiration, with devotion and with a deep appreciation of your goodness of heart. It is this goodness of heart which gives me hope that you will at least listen to me with sympathy.”
He paused for a few moments, and then, as Caroline did not forbid him, he continued earnestly, “I would have spoken before had it not been for Redwell. What had I to offer Miss Rivers in comparison with the position she would occupy as the mistress of Fountains Place? What was I? A country squire with a comfortable but unpretentious house, a few small farms and a modest competence. It would have been the height of folly to enter the running, to obtrude myself upon your notice—but now, now that Redwell has gone, and gone without your acceptance of his suit, I should be a coward indeed if I did not put my fate to the test. What have I to offer Miss Rivers? My hand, my heart, a deep and sincere affection and a lively appreciation of her beauty and grace.”
Caroline was quite overcome by Mr. Berringer’s eloquence and by the manly way he had spoken. His modesty and delicacy of feeling moved her inexpressibly.
“Position is not everything,” murmured Caroline.
“Not everything,” he agreed in earnest tones. “Position and wealth are much to be desired, but to my mind mutual affection and harmony of mind and intellect are even more important. Can it be possible that you feel as I do on the subject?” He hesitated and then continued, “Oh, Miss Rivers, will you allow me to hope?”
It was impossible for Caroline to reply. She turned her head aside.
“I have offended you!” cried Mr. Berringer in alarm.
“No, no,” replied Caroline.
“Tell me,” he begged. “Tell me that you will think of what I have said. Tell me there is hope—that at least you are not altogether indifferent to me.”
“I could not be—indifferent—” whispered Caroline, and raising her head she looked at Mr. Berringer with an expression of true sensibility.
“My dearest girl! My sweetest Caroline!” cried Mr. Berringer in accents which betrayed that his feelings were almost too deep for words.
Caroline’s agitation was extreme but Mr. Berringer was so considerate towards her, so full of good sense and proper feeling, that in a few minutes she was able to overcome her embarrassment and compose herself sufficiently to give him the assurances he so earnestly desired. A few minutes more and Caroline was able to persuade herself—and him—that he had always been the object of her secret affections and that never in her wildest moments had she intended to become the wife of the egregious Mr, Redwell and the mistress of Fountains Place. Mr. Berringer was only too happy to believe her, too happy to doubt that this indeed was the case, too joyful to be critical. Nor were Caroline’s feelings less joyful; hers was the exquisite pleasure of knowing herself beloved of a man whom she could trust and admire, whose intellect was lively and whose delicacy of feeling matched her own, a man who appreciated her not only for her outward graces but for her qualities of mind and heart.
Caroline could have no regrets. Her future home, though lacking fountains and peacocks, would not lack comfort, affection and intellectual companionship; and her future husband, though lacking the wealth and position of Mr. Redwell, was a model of manliness, humour and good sense.
When Erica has finished reading and closed the book everybody thanks her effusively and a babble of conversation breaks forth, amongst which can be heard individual remarks. Mrs. Ovens is telling the world how much she enjoys the delicate satire of Jane Austen; Mrs. Maloney is agreeing with her; Jane is inimitable, declares Miss Dove. Mrs. Stannard says, “And Miss Clutterbuck reads so well, doesn’t she? It’s a pleasure to listen.”
I look round the room from one to another, everyone is pleased and satisfied. I am pleased too, of course, for the reading has been most enjoyable and Erica’s voice is an admirable instrument for its task, but . . .
“So you knew!” says Erica’s voice in my ear (she has come up behind me while I was looking at the other members of the party).
“Er—yes—” I reply doubtfully. “It was like Miss Austen, but not quite Miss Austen—if you know what I mean.”
“Nobody better,” says Erica drily.
“And Miss Austen would never have allowed her heroine to refuse a good match and be fobbed off with an ordinary country squire.”
“I believe you’re right,” says Erica with a very thoughtful air.
“Why did you do it, Erica?”
“Huntigowk, of course. This is the first of April.”
“Yes—but—”
“Austen was too good for the likes of them. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, as a matter o
f fact—”
“Dear Jane, how I adore her!” says Erica, copying the honeyed accents of Mrs. Ovens with ludicrous effect. “Makes me sick—hrrmph,” says Erica blowing out smoke.
“Erica, what was it?” I enquire, for this has been puzzling me all along. “If it wasn’t Austen what was it?”
“Clutterbuck, of course,” replies Erica with a grim smile.
TUESDAY, 2ND APRIL
Annie has settled down splendidly at Tocher and despite her apprehensions she seems to get on with Clara Hope none too badly. It is pleasant to see Annie about the house, to meet her on the stairs or to find her dusting my bedroom or washing the paint. It is delightful to be awakened by Annie in the morning and to have a chat with her about matters which interest us both.
“That Mrs. Ovens!” says Annie as she puts down my morning tea and fetches the cushion from the armchair to prop me up. “She’s no better than she should be—and her husband in Germany, too.”
“Miss Clutterbuck is worried about her.”
“Why worry!” says Annie. “She’s bad, that’s what. It wouldn’t matter whether she was here or somewhere else, it would be just the same.”
“Not the same for here,” I reply, somewhat muddled, for to tell the truth I find Annie’s ideas a trifle difficult to follow at this early hour of the morning.
“Miss Clutterbuck can tell her to go,” says Annie. “There’s nothing to stop her and she would enjoy the job if I know anything about what she’s like.”
Annie goes after that and I sip my tea and think about things—chiefly about Erica. Annie thinks she knows what Miss Clutterbuck is like, but does she? Do I, for that matter? I thought I knew what she was like in the first half-hour, but how wrong I was! Erica is like an unexplored country and my discoveries about her resemble the discoveries of an explorer who penetrates its fastnesses and is surprised at every step. Who would have thought at the first sight of that uncompromising figure that it contained a heart of gold? Who would have thought that beneath the tough shell and behind the screen of the offhand manner there is a sensitive soul? Yesterday’s affair has cast another new light upon Erica Clutterbuck—who would have thought she could write? She says herself—I pressed her for information—that she can’t write, not really. She can copy other people to a certain extent, but what use is that except to take in a lot of silly hypocritical sheep and have a joke? Erica calls it a jape. It was an excellent jape, she thinks.
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