I set down the letter with hands that would tremble. Smythe had been in Overton; and Madam’s horse had been frighted by a shot from the hedgerow at Overton Hill’s summit. James could tell me nothing of dates; but I remembered Lord Harold’s opinion of coincidence, and knew that though I should never possess what Mr. Elliot should describe as proof, I had learned the name of Anne Lefroy’s murderer.

Nothing should be simpler, than the achievement of the deed. Smythe had only to conceal himself in the hedgerow for the purpose, and fire a gun lent to him by Hugh Conyngham. For the precarious seat of ladies forced to ride side-saddle was everywhere acknowledged — and Madam’s ruin was certain. He might as readily have pointed the gun at her heart.

“What a commendable letter, Jane,” Cassandra observed, “in its closing passages, particularly. I can never like my brother’s style or sentiments — he has grown too pompous with the advance of years, and his preferment in his profession — but his concern for your reputation is quite honestly expressed. He might have been altogether a different man, perhaps, if — that is to say—” Her voice trailed abruptly away.

“Altogether different, had Anne survived,” I finished for her. We had all of us loved the elegant and well-bred Anne; her character was steady, her understanding excellent. And though we could not like Mary Lloyd half so well, our affection for her sister Martha would generally make us silent upon the subject.

“Can you not confide in me, Jane, the reason for your attention to Madam Lefroy’s passing?”

I avoided my sister’s eye. “There is nothing very extraordinary in it, surely? We must all of us feel the most lively interest on the subject.”

“I cannot dismiss it soon enough. To dwell upon such matters is intolerable, and quite unlike your usual activity. You do not brood, Jane. I am quite confounded at the impulse that should solicit such a letter.”

“You must not importune me, Cassandra,” I replied. “We all of us have different ways of grieving, and of making our last farewells. And now I think I should like to walk a little in the Crescent, and take a breath of air. Would you consent to accompany me, my dear?”

• • •

WE SAT DOWN TO AN EARLY DINNER, AS IS USUAL WITH the Austens; but a pull of the bell not long thereafter brought a note addressed to myself, and in Lord Harold’s crabbed hand. I was summoned to drink the season’s cheer and Lady Desdemona’s health, in Laura Place at eight o’clock.

“Tea!” my mother exclaimed. “Had they considered you this morning, it might as well have been dinner. This is no very great honour, Jane, in being left so late — and on Christmas Eve, too! They have been disappointed in another of their party, I expect, and require your presence now merely to make up a table of cards. You had much better decline the invitation — for it will not do to seem grateful for so small a consideration.”

“Indeed, ma’am, I am sure you mistake,” I calmly replied. “At her time in life, the Duchess has no very great love of distinction; and being formerly of less than the first rank herself, is more inclined to show interest than disdain for ladies with modest prospects. I would be gratified to drink her tea, I assure you.”

“Oh, well — if you must throw yourself in his lordship’s way, it cannot be helped, I suppose,” my mother replied with an appearance of indifference. “Only tea! However, they may desire you to remain for supper, Jane, and I will not have you sitting down with a duchess in your brown cambric. Run along and exchange your gown for another, my dear, and do not neglect to leave off your cap. Mary will dress your hair.”

IT WAS A SELECT AND EVEN ELEGANT PARTY THAT GATHERED in Laura Place this evening — the Duchess seated in comfortable intimacy with Lord Harold, while Lady Desdemona provoked the Earl and her brother to rueful laughter at the opposite end of the room. Miss Wren held down the middle part, established over her fringe— and at first I feared I should fall victim to her desire for a confidante, and learn every syllable of the abuse she must suffer, now Mona was to go away, and leave Miss Wren quite at the Dowager’s mercy — but at length, the young lady herself condescended to open the pianoforte, and required Miss Wren to turn the pages. Lady Desdemona commenced a Scotch air, her sweet voice swelling with pathos; and as if drawn by an invisible chord, the Earl moved close to the instrument to gaze upon his beloved.

“You will recollect, Jane, that I said I would not have my Mona thrown away,” Lord Harold observed as he came to stand by my side. “I cannot now think any other man so deserving of her. My sources tell me that Swithin has entirely left off the opium trade, by the by, and indeed, has spent the better part of the years since his father’s death, in extricating the family fortunes from that dubious business.” A glint of amusement flickered in his hooded gaze, then vanished abruptly. “He is a ruthless fellow, but he has a character of iron; and men of that stamp are rare enough in any age. Mona is quite resigned to the Colonel’s infamy, happy in her brother’s release — and looks only to the future.”

“But you, however, cannot,” I said.

A swift look, as swiftly averted. “No,” Trowbridge replied. “I have had news this evening, my dear Jane, that must weigh heavily upon me. Maria Conyngham is dead.”

“Dead!”

“She hanged herself at Ilchester — tore the flounces from her gown, it seems, and wound them into a noose. Her brother is said to be mad with grief, and screaming vengeance on my head.”

We were silent a moment; and in the confusion of my thoughts I heard Lady Desdemona’s voice — simple, pure, and joyous without reckoning. “You cannot feel yourself responsible, my lord,” I told Lord Harold, “for what Hugh Conyngham has done. The ruin of his sister’s life, and his own, was inspired by his lust for vengeance against Mr. Lawrence; and had he never been moved to violence — had he allowed Maria Siddons to rest in her grave — his sister might yet be treading the boards in Bristol this evening.”

“I wonder, Jane,” Lord Harold mused. “I wonder. When I consider the Colonel, willing to risk everything to murder such a man — I cannot believe the plotting to be entirely Conyngham’s. Easton would not have lifted a finger for him. But for Maria Conyngham, he would have done much — even married a lady he did not love, in order to keep them both in fortune. No — the revenge against Mr. Lawrence was planned, I believe, by Maria alone; and now she has cheated even her brother, and left him to shoulder the blame.”

“So much of ruin, for a girl already gone three years to her grave, and a man not worth speaking of,” I mused.

“I imagine Maria Siddons would be gratified, did she know of it. She was, like Miss Conyngham, a creature formed for vengeance; and if Mr. Lawrence’s peace has been even a little disturbed by the threat to his person, she will be dancing tonight in heaven.”

“And what of the portrait, my lord? Maria Siddons’s malevolent eye?”

“It shall be returned, of course, to her mother — though I must admit to the temptation of tossing it in the river. Such ill-fortuned baubles should be entombed with their subjects.”

“—Excepting, perhaps, Mr. Lawrence’s sketch of Maria Conyngham?”

Lord Harold’s eyes failed to meet my own. I had observed him to secure the impassioned likeness within his coat the morning of our visit to the painter’s rooms, and I must suppose his lordship to retain it still; but I could hardly expect him to declare as much. Impertinence is usually met by Lord Harold with an impenetrable silence, as I had occasion to know; and the present instance would not warrant an exception.