Mrs. Prowting made my mother comfortable for an hour in a spare bedchamber; calmly bade her daughters leave off staring out the front windows; and observed that there was nothing like a body to drive folk from their work. She was a lady of significant proportions, her countenance placid; a woman whom even Death could not disturb. I observed, however, that she clutched a black-bordered square of lawn firmly in one hand throughout dinner — in expectation, perhaps, of being momentarily overcome by the Awfulness of the Event.

“I have lived in this country nearly all my life, Mrs. Prowting, with the exception of an interval in Bath,” my mother declared in answer to her polite enquiry. “I do not count my childhood in Oxford — for that was decidedly long ago — and though Southampton is quite southwards, it is nonetheless Hampshire.”

It had required several lessons in geography to impart this certainty to my mother’s mind; I thanked Providence the point no longer admitted of doubt.

“And you are soon to be joined here in Chawton by two other ladies?”

“My elder daughter is, as we believe, already on her road from Kent; and our dear friend Miss Lloyd — who has formed a part of our household since the not entirely unexpected death of her mother a few years since — is presently visiting her sister at Kintbury. We look for both ladies every day — and Mr. Edward Austen as well.”

“Mr. Austen is expected in Chawton!” ejaculated Mr. Prowting. “That is news indeed! We shall have to organise a party of welcome for the Squire. We shall indeed, my dear.”

“Mr. Austen is always welcome in this house,” rejoined his wife comfortably. “He is often in the country, as you must know, Mrs. Austen, for the settling of his tenant accounts. He is wont to engage a room at the George for that express purpose each quarter, and all his folk come and go to pay their respects — and their rents.”

“We are quite the family party in this corner of the world,” my mother sighed, as though rents and their accounting were all the joy she asked of life. “My eldest son, Mr. James Austen, is rector at Steventon, but a dozen miles distant; my fourth son, Henry, maintains a branch of his London bank — Austen, Gray & Vincent, perhaps you know it? — so near as Alton; and the wife of my fifth son, Captain Francis Austen, has lately taken a house in the same town.”

“So many sons,” observed Mrs. Prowting. “And which Alton house does the Captain’s wife rent, ma’am?”

“Rose Cottage, in Lenton Street.”

“I know it well! That is excellent news; you shall have a daughter within walking distance.”

“I had almost considered removing to Mrs. Frank,” my mother faltered, “on the strength of this dreadful business — I know I shall not sleep a wink in such a house — a house of death. but Mrs. Frank is indisposed at present, and I cannot presume upon the kindness of one in her condition. Her first child nearly killed her, you know.”

“You are most welcome to remain with us, ma’am,” Mrs. Prowting said warmly. “I should not think of sending you back to the cottage this evening.”

My mother looked as though she might accept with gratitude — but I considered of Lord Harold’s papers, lodged for the nonce in the henhouse, and interposed a negative.

“You are very good, Mrs. Prowting, but we are perfectly content in the cottage. A clergyman’s family, as you know, is accustomed to the Dead.”

A pompous speech enough; but Mrs. Prowting looked as though she admired it. My mother was nettled, and kicked my shin quite savagely beneath the table. She had the grace, however, not to engage in public argument.

“I think you said that Captain Austen is serving on the China Station?” Mr. Prowting enquired. “Excellent! Excellent!

We hope to welcome another member of the Navy into the bosom of our family before very long; a young man we greatly esteem—”

“Papa! I beg you will not run on in that unbecoming way! I am sure I shall die of consciousness! The Austens can have no interest in Benjamin Clement — and to be sure, he is grown so odd of late — so inconstant in his attentions — that I protest I have no interest in him either!”

This impassioned cry fell from the lips of the youngest Miss Prowting, a girl I should judge to be at least twenty. She was fairhaired, blue-eyed, and full-figured; her white muslin gown was bestowed from neck to hem with fluttering primrose ribbons. It was clear she was accounted a Great Beauty, but I could not join in the general acclaim. Tho’ Ann’s complexion was good, it bore an expression of peevishness, and she had not the slightest pretension to either wit or conversation.

“Eh, do not be pouting at me, miss!” her father returned fondly, chucking her under the chin. “Young Benjamin is always the most constant of your beaux, no matter how little you are inclined to notice! Quite the belle of the village, our little Ann!”

It was as well, I thought, that my mother and Ann Prowting had divided the dinner table between them; for I had rarely been so ill-disposed to the rigours of Society, nor been so woefully unable to concentrate my energies. My mind was full of Lord Harold’s bequest and the puzzle of the corpse in our cellar. I could not be attending to the insipidities of a country neighbourhood, however congenial the party.

“The Squire was well, I hope, when you quitted Kent?” Mrs. Prowting enquired. A brief silence ensued; her gaze, I saw too late and with sudden horror, was fixed upon me.

“My brother was very well, I thank you, Mrs. Prowting,” I returned in a rush.

“It’s a sad business, a gentleman of Mr. Austen’s circumstances being left with all those children on his hands.” Mrs. Prowting continued to study me, as though attempting to discern some likeness in my features — but it is Henry whom I resemble, not Edward. “A sad business, indeed; but Man proposes and the Lord disposes, as we have good reason to know. Does Mr. Austen think of giving up the Kentish place, and settling here in Chawton, with so many of his family fixed in the neighbourhood?”

“I do not think my brother has any idea of quitting Kent,” I replied. “All his affections and interest are bound up in the environs of Canterbury.”

“I should adore to go into Kent!” Ann Prowting sighed.

“Hampshire beaux are nothing to those of Canterbury, I am sure! All the smart ton fellows descend upon the place for the races in August, Mamma!”

Mamma did not appear inclined to notice this effusion; and it was the elder daughter, Catherine, who turned the conversation. She was dark where her sister was fair, and retiring in her disposition. We had not yet had five words together from her lips.

“We were very sorry to hear of Mrs. Edward Austen’s passing,” she managed. “That lady only came to Chawton once within memory, but she left an impression of goodness as well as of fashion, and appears to have been everything that is amiable.”

“Thank you,” I said. “We have all felt my sister’s loss most keenly; and as Mrs. Prowting observes, my brother’s children above all. There are no less than eleven little Austens, and the youngest has not yet attained a year of age.”[4]

Mrs. Prowting lifted up her eyes to Heaven, and then retreated for a moment behind her square of linen.

“Mamma is thinking of William again,” Ann observed in a bored tone, “or perhaps of John. They were both of them odious little boys; I am sure I cannot count the times they teazed me unmercifully, and pulled my hair.”

“Ann,” Catherine whispered fiercely. “Consider where you are.”

But her sister continued insensible of danger.

“Perhaps your brother will chuse a second wife, Miss Austen,” Ann suggested brightly, “should he ever return to Chawton. He will not find the ladies so high in the instep as in Kent! We are all easy here! I should set my cap at him myself — but as he is so old, I do not think there could be any fun in it. He shall do very well for Catherine.”