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Updated: June 21, 2025
It is over a hundred years since Jane Austen lived. But when you tramp that five miles from Overton, where the railroad-station is, to Steventon, where she was born, it doesn't seem like it. Rural England does not change much.
She put the question, still looking mechanically at the door by which her husband and Clara had gone out. Receiving no reply, she glanced round at Steventon. He was standing on the opposite side of the luncheon-table, with his eyes fixed attentively on the view from the main doorway of the boat-house. Mrs. Crayford looked where Steventon was looking. This time there was something visible.
"Do you believe in the Second Sight?" Steventon politely declined to commit himself to a direct reply. "I don't know what I might have done, if I had ever been in the Highlands," he said. "As it is, I have had no opportunities of giving the subject any serious consideration." "I won't put your credulity to the test," Clara proceeded.
Ackworth's cause went for him at Guildhall, against his accusers, which I am well enough pleased with. 3rd. Up betimes, and by water with W. Hewer to White Hall, and there to Mr. Wren, who gives me but small hopes of the favour I hoped for Mr. Steventon, Will's uncle, of having leave, being upon the point of death, to surrender his place, which do trouble me, but I will do what I can.
Clerke, the solicitor, being dead, of a cold, after being not above two days ill, which troubles me mightily, poor man! 2nd. Up, and at the office all the morning upon some accounts of Sir D. Gawden, and at noon abroad with W. Hewer, thinking to have found Mr. Wren at Captain Cox's, to have spoke something to him about doing a favour for Will's uncle Steventon, but missed him.
His eyes glared like the eyes of a wild animal; his head was bare; his long gray hair was torn and tangled; his miserable garments hung about him in rags. He stood in the doorway, a speechless figure of misery and want, staring at the well-spread table like a hungry dog. Steventon spoke to him. "Who are you?" He answered, in a hoarse, hollow voice, "A starving man."
"You both drew the lot to stay in the huts," she said, addressing Crayford and Steventon. "And you are both here. Richard Wardour drew the lot to stay, and Richard Wardour is not here. How does his name come to be with Frank's on the list of the missing?" The question was a dangerous one to answer. Steventon left it to Crayford to reply. Once again he answered evasively.
Would she ask him who this volunteer was? No. She went straight on to the most embarrassing question that she had put yet referring to the volunteer, as if Steventon had already mentioned his name. "What made Richard Wardour so ready to risk his life for Frank's sake?" she said to Crayford. "Did he do it out of friendship for Frank? Surely you can tell me that?
Creed, who came, and walked together talking about business, and then to his lodgings at Clerke's, the confectioner's, where he did give me a little banquet, and I had liked to have begged a parrot for my wife, but he hath put me in a way to get a better from Steventon; at Portsmouth. But I did get of him a draught of Tangier to take a copy by, which pleases me very well.
So I kissed Jane Austen's round, rosy cheek and stroked the tousled heads of the boys by way of blessing, and started for Steventon to interview the Rector who was very wise. And the clergyman who teaches his people the history of their neighborhood, and tells them of the excellent men and women who once lived thereabouts, is both wise and good.
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