“How mad they all are for enjoyment, I declare,” my mother cried, as two open carriages dashed by, each driven by a handsome young gentleman, and sporting ladies of perhaps sixteen, their bright faces huddled in fur tippets. “They shall be overturned in an instant, I daresay, and there shall be an end to romance.”

I drew my mother’s gloved hand within my arm. “Do not distress yourself, madam. Romance at that age is akin to health — it thrives on every stroke of abuse. An overturning can do no less than advance the engagement of the respective parties, where it should quite drive off affection in ladies of more mature sentiment.”

“I wonder you can be so cheerful, Jane,” Cassandra remarked. “It quite pains me to laugh.”

My sister had yet to forgive or approve me, it seemed; and the knowledge of my disgrace pressed hard upon my spirits. Cassandra has ever been my dearest confidante, my most beloved companion, a second self; and her disapprobation was not to be dismissed, however much I might attempt it.

And so we walked on in silence.

My Aunt and Uncle Leigh-Perrot have maintained for some time a creditable establishment at No. 1 Paragon Buildings, in which they reside fully half the year, being childless and given over to the fancies of old-age and ill-health. No benefit can they derive from their imbibing of the waters, if one is to judge from the weight of complaints with which they daily unburden themselves; Bath is as useless to them in this quarter, as the moon; but in Bath they must remain for the duration of the winter, or suffer the most dreadful of reverses. Even my unfortunate aunt’s being taken up for theft, and imprisoned some seven months before her trial and acquittal, has not dispelled the charms of the Leigh-Perrots’ adopted city; and their society is one of the more tedious burdens of our residence here these three years and more.[71] For though possessed of considerable means, a small household, and no very great inclination to dress herself finely or entertain upon a lavish scale — my aunt is convinced she is on the point of penury, and makes a great to-do about every trifling expense. This parsimony in her nature, when taken with her cultivation of ill-health, makes her a difficult companion in the easiest of times.

“Well, girls!” my aunt cried, upon perceiving us at the door, “and so you have put on black gloves for Madam Lefroy! Aye, I heard it all from John Butcher, who is to marry the daughter of your Cook; and I wonder that you did not trouble to visit us before! It is very bad, to have the news of a person of that kind; they are all for puffing themselves up with importance, in a most unbecoming and insolent fashion! That veil is very fine, Cassandra — but I am sure you gave too much for it. You always do.”

My aunt was established today on the sitting-room sofa, a lap rug tucked well about her, quite splendid in dressing-gown and cap. Jane Leigh-Perrot is possessed of the most manly features I have ever observed in a woman — a square chin, long nose, and frankly assessing eyes. Her countenance must convey an impression of vigour and health entirely at variance with her languorous airs; and I shall probably be guilty of abusing her on her deathbed, so little confidence do I place in her claims to ill-health.

“Good morning, Aunt.” Cassandra advanced to offer her cheek. “You look very well.”

“I do not feel myself to be so, I assure you. Such palpitations of the heart! Such faintings and flutterings in my head and my bowels! Do you fetch my vinaigrette, Cassandra, and then tell me all the news.”

“Indeed we have none, Aunt — being quite sunk in mourning, and little disposed to society,” I interposed.

The good lady snorted, and subjected my figure to the very coldest appraisal. “Do not be affecting modesty in my eyes, Miss Jane! I have heard it all from your mother these two days at least! I know that you are quite abandoned to pleasure and dissipation, and go about with a most disreputable set! No amount of black ribbon can deceive me!”

“That is very well, Aunt, for deception is hardly my inclination.”

She snorted again, like a well-exercised horse, and rounded upon my mother. The poor lady had perched anxiously on the edge of a chair, in an effort to avoid my gaze. “Is she buried, then, Mrs. Austen?”

“The service is to be on Friday,” my mother supplied, “and James is to have the performing of it.”

“That is very singular — for she died in the early hours of Sunday, did she not? I fear the decomposition of the corpse will be highly advanced. There will be a stench. Most distressing to the unfortunate relicts.”

We were saved the necessity of an answer by the appearance of my uncle, a spare, lithe, twinkling personage with a high forehead and ruddy complexion. He was today all smiles and affability. “Ah, there you are, sister!” he exclaimed, and advanced upon us with that mingled expression of pain and forbearance that generally marks the gout sufferer. “This is happily met, indeed! For I was just upon the point of seeking you in Seymour Street, and you have saved me the job of it! What do you think? I have taken a subscription to the concert tomorrow evening, and there are places for us all — if you will do me the honour of accepting!”

“It should be quite beyond our power, brother,” my mother replied with an anxious look, “for you see we are in mourning, on account of Madam Lefroy.”

“Well — and what is the point of mourning, hey, if not to be observed by all the world? We do not go about in black merely to sit at home quietly by the fire, and admire one another! I doubt Cassandra would wish to keep so fine a veil from the sight of the wondering public.”

At this brilliant sally, he doubled over with laughter, and poked my sister in the ribs. Cassandra looked discomfited, and shifted uneasily in her chair. “Indeed, Uncle, I have no desire to parade my distress before anyone, I assure you.”

“And Jane has never very much enjoyment in a concert,” my aunt observed with conscious malice.

“No, indeed — she has the most wretched ear imaginable when it comes to Rauzzini and Mrs. Billington,” my mother agreed. “The music should quite be wasted upon Jane.”

“So I fear you must give up your tickets, Perrot,” my aunt pronounced with decision. “They are not wanted at all; and do you be certain to retrieve your money from the ticket-sellers — they are all for what they can get, and will be pressing in their claim that you must exchange one concert for another! We shall stay at home tomorrow, and invite the Austens to make an additional table at whist. There is no harm in cards, surely, when one is in mourning?”

My unfortunate uncle looked crestfallen. “But this is too bad!” he cried. “I was as fond of Madam Lefroy as anyone, to be sure — but I do not think she would wish for us to endure the season with long faces. What is Christmas, without music or amusement? I had thought perhaps we might return here after the concert, Jane, for a game of charades. We cannot observe the holiday, without we have charades!”

My Uncle Leigh-Perrot is a rare hand at the composition of these gentle conundrums, they having formed the chief part of the Leigh family’s revels in his childhood; and he takes such obvious delight in the confusion of all his relations, that we none of us are at pains to guess his riddles too soon.[72] In nine-and-twenty years of observing Christmas, I have survived only a few without charades; I learned the art of their construction at my mother’s knee, and all the Austens may profess a certain ingenuity in their devising. In considering of my uncle’s disappointment, and my own dread of martyrdom to my aunt’s affection for cards, I at last determined to speak.