and Marianne had burnt the ostrich feathers intended for Miss Knight’s new hat—”
“What?” Fanny exclaimed, from the lower end of the table. “Miss Clewes, you
didn’t
!”
“I commend Marianne,” John Plumptre interjected gravely. “It is something to find, in so young a child, a disregard for mere objects of vanity—and a
truly Christian
sense of duty towards a fellow creature in distress.”
“Fiddle,” Fanny retorted. “It was all play-acting and heroics,I am sure. The vinaigrette must have revived Miss Clewes, without the sacrifice of my feathers. They were only recently procured in London, at considerable expence!”
Plumptre’s expression hardened. “I wonder very much, Miss Knight, if there is
any
pleasure you would be willing to forgo, out of consideration for another’s welfare?”
Fanny flushed, torn between mortification and outrage.
“You go too far, sir,” Edward said quietly from his position at the head of the table. “All of us who have reason to honour and cherish Fanny know the sacrifices she has long made, on behalf of her little brothers and sisters, since the hour of my dear wife’s death; no one could so ably have filled Elizabeth’s place. Fanny rates her own concerns so far beneath everyone else’s; it is what one must particularly admire in her. But being a stranger to this household, no doubt you have failed to apprehend what all of us know too well to mention.”
Fanny’s eyes welled with tears at her father’s words; and in part from a desire to turn the conversation, I said rather loudly to Miss Clewes, “You are quite recovered from your indisposition, ma’am, I hope?”
“I am a little better, thank you, Miss Austen,” the governess said as she pressed one trembling hand to her heart. “I am sure that
you
, who went immediately to the
dreadful
scene, must particularly feel how
violent
death cuts up one’s peace! I wonder you were not prostrate upon a sopha the remainder of the day! To
consider
of the unfortunate man lying on the Pilgrim’s Way—such a
sacred
place, too—and quite dead, with none of us the wiser, but going about our business as tho’ we had hearts of stone!”
“Your sentiments do you credit, Miss Clewes,” George Moore said with a satiric edge to his voice, “but in the present case you may rest easy. Dying on the Pilgrim’s Way is perhaps the
only
sacred note Curzon Fiske struck in his varied career. For my part, I shall not mourn him.”
“George!” his wife cried reprovingly. My nephew’s tale, it seemed, had failed to entirely drown out the interesting conversation.
“Forgive me for speaking plainly, Harriot,” Mr. Moore returned, “but I never loved the fellow, tho’ we were raised as boon companions; and if his death inspires any regret, it is that it did not come sooner—in Ceylon, as was reported! At least
one
person might then have been spared further humiliation,” he added, in an undertone.
“One person,” Mr. Lushington declared, “appears to have been so entirely in accord with your sentiments, Moore, that he made certain Fiske proved as dead in fact, as he was reckoned in rumour!”
The clergyman met his gaze coldly. “You go a little fast for me, Lushington. I will not yet admit another party to have been involved. Is it inconceivable that Fiske should have done away with himself?”
“Completely and utterly!” The MP pounded his fist on the table, and my wineglass teetered. “Do you honestly believe the man journeyed long months by sea, risking all to return to England, merely to despatch himself in the middle of a common footpath? Nonsense! Where is the motive? And, more to the point—where is the weapon?”
“I never understood Fiske’s reasons for
living
as he did,” Mr. Moore asserted. “I cannot be expected, therefore, to apprehend why he should chuse to end that life. As for the weapon—no doubt it shall be found, in time. And then we may thankfully put a period to a
“What?” Fanny exclaimed, from the lower end of the table. “Miss Clewes, you
didn’t
!”
“I commend Marianne,” John Plumptre interjected gravely. “It is something to find, in so young a child, a disregard for mere objects of vanity—and a
truly Christian
sense of duty towards a fellow creature in distress.”
“Fiddle,” Fanny retorted. “It was all play-acting and heroics,I am sure. The vinaigrette must have revived Miss Clewes, without the sacrifice of my feathers. They were only recently procured in London, at considerable expence!”
Plumptre’s expression hardened. “I wonder very much, Miss Knight, if there is
any
pleasure you would be willing to forgo, out of consideration for another’s welfare?”
Fanny flushed, torn between mortification and outrage.
“You go too far, sir,” Edward said quietly from his position at the head of the table. “All of us who have reason to honour and cherish Fanny know the sacrifices she has long made, on behalf of her little brothers and sisters, since the hour of my dear wife’s death; no one could so ably have filled Elizabeth’s place. Fanny rates her own concerns so far beneath everyone else’s; it is what one must particularly admire in her. But being a stranger to this household, no doubt you have failed to apprehend what all of us know too well to mention.”
Fanny’s eyes welled with tears at her father’s words; and in part from a desire to turn the conversation, I said rather loudly to Miss Clewes, “You are quite recovered from your indisposition, ma’am, I hope?”
“I am a little better, thank you, Miss Austen,” the governess said as she pressed one trembling hand to her heart. “I am sure that
you
, who went immediately to the
dreadful
scene, must particularly feel how
violent
death cuts up one’s peace! I wonder you were not prostrate upon a sopha the remainder of the day! To
consider
of the unfortunate man lying on the Pilgrim’s Way—such a
sacred
place, too—and quite dead, with none of us the wiser, but going about our business as tho’ we had hearts of stone!”
“Your sentiments do you credit, Miss Clewes,” George Moore said with a satiric edge to his voice, “but in the present case you may rest easy. Dying on the Pilgrim’s Way is perhaps the
only
sacred note Curzon Fiske struck in his varied career. For my part, I shall not mourn him.”
“George!” his wife cried reprovingly. My nephew’s tale, it seemed, had failed to entirely drown out the interesting conversation.
“Forgive me for speaking plainly, Harriot,” Mr. Moore returned, “but I never loved the fellow, tho’ we were raised as boon companions; and if his death inspires any regret, it is that it did not come sooner—in Ceylon, as was reported! At least
one
person might then have been spared further humiliation,” he added, in an undertone.
“One person,” Mr. Lushington declared, “appears to have been so entirely in accord with your sentiments, Moore, that he made certain Fiske proved as dead in fact, as he was reckoned in rumour!”
The clergyman met his gaze coldly. “You go a little fast for me, Lushington. I will not yet admit another party to have been involved. Is it inconceivable that Fiske should have done away with himself?”
“Completely and utterly!” The MP pounded his fist on the table, and my wineglass teetered. “Do you honestly believe the man journeyed long months by sea, risking all to return to England, merely to despatch himself in the middle of a common footpath? Nonsense! Where is the motive? And, more to the point—where is the weapon?”
“I never understood Fiske’s reasons for
living
as he did,” Mr. Moore asserted. “I cannot be expected, therefore, to apprehend why he should chuse to end that life. As for the weapon—no doubt it shall be found, in time. And then we may thankfully put a period to a
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