Chapter 7

Methinks He Doth Protest Overmuch

16 December 1802, cont.

THE COUNTESS HAVING RETIRED, AND THERE YET remaining several hours before I must dress for dinner, I bethought myself of exercise — prohibited heretofore by the heavy fall of snow — and donned my pelisse. With the aid of my pattens[22], my boots might escape complete ruination; but, in truth, I do not care a fig for the fate of my boots, when weighed against the claims of sanity. Another hour's confinement among Scargrave's grey walls, with Isobel's poor spirits and the Delahoussayes’ poor wits, should render me fit only to play the part of madwoman in one of Fanny Burney's novels.

I nodded to Fetters, the footman, and slipped through the heavy oak doors he drew back for my passage, feeling immaterial as a shade in the pale wintry sunlight. The air was fresh and sharp, and smelled bitingly of snow; we should have another fall before dawn, I surmised. I breathed deeply and felt a pressure ease within my chest; my sight cleared, and a pounding at the temples I had suffered for some hours began to recede. The world, however bleak I have found it in the last few weeks, must nonetheless be formed of goodness, if but a few moments in Nature's company may suffice to renew one's health and mental aspect.

The grand flight of steps that spilled before me had been swept 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 hatchments[23] 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 the Lieutenant.

“I have so far learned from my brother's example, Miss Austen, as to spurn passion in anything. It is too often the means of unmastering a sober mind. Better to approach all that one can in life, with probity and discretion. Reason is my beloved tool, as ardour has become my brother's.”

“I commend you, sir — though I might consider a judicious mixture of the two, as the best guarantee of happiness.”

He merely nodded, his thoughts apparently elsewhere, and left me as desperate for an opening as before. We laboured on in silence a few moments, but at the broad face of Scargrave approaching, I forced myself to the purpose.

“I suppose the Earl's death has only heightened the attractions of the out-of-doors,” I observed, “for to sit by the fire in contemplation of his sudden exiting from this life, should do little good to anybody.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Hearst replied, his eyes upon the muddied path at our feet.

“I suppose you held the Earl in deep affection?” I persisted. At his expression of surprise, I added lamely, “It is just that I had so little opportunity to study his lordship's character — the Countess having married so recently, and the Earl departing his life almost upon the moment that I entered it.”

“And are you a student of character; Miss Austen?” Mr. Hearst enquired, avoiding the necessity of answering my question.

“Oh! But of course!” I exclaimed, with greater enthusiasm for the game than I felt; “is there anything more worth the study?”

“In my opinion, there is little that is less worthy of your penetration. The character of a man is formed for disappointment, I believe; the more one knows of one's fellow beings, the less one is inclined to cherish them — or oneself.”

“Mr Hearst! I am all amazement! Are these the sentiments of a man of the Church? You must seek to reform your views, if Holy Orders remain your object.”

“But perhaps it is my poor opinion of my fellows that spurs my aspirations heavenwards, Miss Austen.”

“I dare say,” I rejoined, “your contempt for the human condition leaving you no alternative. But it cannot serve to improve your parishioners’ lot. As a clergyman's daughter; I must advise you to choose the solitude of the cloister; Mr. Hearst, rather than the pulpit. Its lofty height cannot preserve you from the disaffection of your flock, if you offer them only scorn.”