Chapter Twenty-Six
Now the best way for a man to seem to be any thing, is really to be what he would seem to be.
At last the dinner ended, and Frances decided she would ask her brother-in-law to read or Jane to sing, to spare them another hour of stilted conversation.
But the same thought must have struck Philip Egerton because when they retired again to the parlor, he accosted their guest with, “I say, Hearne. Since I have heard about your acting talents, and since my wife and I were unable to see the play, what would you say to favoring us with a reading?”
Though Philip had not laid especial emphasis upon the phrase “your acting talents,” nor had his lips curled in irony, Adam’s gaze flicked again to Frances, measuring her response.
Her chin lifted in return, which expressed with no need for words, Well? You were acting a part in Iffley. Don’t blame me if you think you’re being teased; that is your own conscience speaking.
But even as she defied him silently, it gave her an idea.
“Very well,” he agreed quietly, accepting the ubiquitous volume of Enfield’s The Speaker. “Have you any particular passage in mind?”
“Oh, do read Dr. Tillotson’s sermon on sincerity, Mr. Hearne,” she suggested wickedly. “It would particularly suit you and the occasion.”
The Egertons coughed and fidgeted at her tone, but not so Mr. Hearne. With a bow of his head and no further sign than a telltale flush overspreading his features, he leafed over the book to the appropriate page.
“‘Truth and sincerity,’” he read, “‘have all the advantages of appearance, and many more. If the shew of any thing be good for any thing, I am sure: the reality is better; for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have the qualities he pretends to?’” Pausing, he looked up.
“This assumes no one ever dissembles for other reasons than personal gain. I wonder if Tillotson would make an exception, say, for the acting of a role.”
“Why need he?” asked Frances, snipping the tiny stitches which had adhered the front of her sewing to the back.
(The candlelight was not very strong, and it is possible she was making the damage worse.) “Everyone who goes to see a play knows the actor plays a role. He is referring to those who play a role when not on the stage.”
“Mm.” Clearing his throat, he read on. “‘…Integrity hath many advantages over all the artificial modes of dissimulation and deceit. It is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and more secure
way of dealing in the world: it hath less of trouble and difficulty, of entanglement and perplexity, of danger and hazard in it…
The arts of deceit and cunning continually grow weaker, and less effectual and serviceable to those that practice them; whereas integrity gains strength by use, and the more and longer any man practiseth it, the greater service it does him, by confirming his reputation, and encouraging those with whom he hath to do, to repose the greatest confidence in him, which is an unspeakable advantage in business and the affairs of life. ’”
“You sound hoarse, Mr. Hearne,” said Frances. “May we fetch you a glass of wine?”
“The tea will be ready soon,” Jane added.
“Ahem. No, thank you. I am fine.”
“Do continue, then,” Frances urged sweetly.
He cleared his throat another time. “‘A Dissembler must always be upon his guard, and watch himself carefully, that he do not contradict his own pretensions; for he acts an unnatural part, and therefore must put a continual force and restraint upon himself. Whereas, he that acts sincerely hath the easiest task in the world; because he follows nature, and so is put to no trouble and care about his words and actions; he needs not invent any pretenses before-hand, nor make excuses afterwards, for any thing he hath said or done.’”
This time it was Philip who spoke up. “Would you care to stand further from the fire, Hearne? You are overheating, I fear.”
But Adam shook his head. “The heat is good.
Like a fever, it is the body ridding itself of disease.
I will finish: ‘Sincerity creates confidence in those we have to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to an issue in few words.
It is like travelling in a plain beaten road, which commonly brings a man sooner to his journey's end, than by-ways, in which men often lose themselves.
In a word, whatsoever convenience may be thought to be in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over; but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it brings a man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, so that he is not believed when he speaks truth, nor trusted when perhaps he means honestly…
‘All other arts will fail; but truth and integrity will carry a man through and bear him out to the last.’”
He shut the volume, and Jane applauded. “Frances was right, Mr. Hearne. You do read very well. I declare, you must have delivered that sermon better than Dr. Tillotson himself. Will you have your tea now?”
“Thank you,” he said grimly. “And perhaps we might hear Miss Barstow next.”
“Yes. Do indulge us, Frances. Will we let her choose her own piece?”
“It only seems fair that, if she chose mine, I should choose hers,” he replied.
Laying aside her needlework, Frances rose and reached for the book. “Perhaps the ‘Ode to Content’ again?” she asked dryly, remembering his first assignment to her, that long-ago evening at Greenwood Hall.
But when she tugged on the volume, he resisted, and she let go again in surprise.
“No, not that silly, cloying verse,” he said, opening Enfield again to the table of contents. “It was all wrong for you, as we learned. Ah. What about this one? Mrs. Barbould’s narrative piece on Pity.”
Warily, Frances regarded him. She distrusted the title, but on skimming through the opening lines she thought perhaps it was just a charming allegory, rather than tit for tat.
“‘In the happy period of the golden age,’” she began, “‘when all the celestial inhabitants descended to the earth, and conversed familiarly with mortals, among the most cherished of the heavenly powers, were twins, the offspring of Jupiter, Love and Joy.’”
See? A harmless fable. Frances’ voice gained confidence.
She only faltered a moment when she reached the part about how Pity, child of Love and Sorrow, “had a dejected appearance, but so soft and gentle a mien, that she was beloved to a degree of enthusiasm.”
That was not all.
“‘Pity,’” Frances read onward, “‘taught men to weep, for she took a strange delight in tears.’” Breaking off, Frances shot Mr. Hearne a sharp look, but he merely dipped his biscuit in his tea and gave a few exasperatingly familiar blinks.
“‘Pity was commanded by Jupiter to follow the steps of her mother through the world, dropping balm into the wounds she made, and binding up the hearts she had broken,’” Frances ground to a conclusion.
What effrontery! What wounds had she, Frances, made?
Whose hearts had she broken? As if he had not wrought all the damage himself.
Not to mention implying that she “took delight in tears”!
When the red receded from her vision, however, she brightened suddenly. “Oh, but look! Charming. How charming. The next piece in the book is called ‘The Dead Ass.’ It is too bad you have already had your turn, Mr. Hearne, or that might be very à propos. It would be a perfect one for Bottom.”
“Enough,” he said under his breath, setting his teacup down. “Mr. and Mrs. Egerton,” he addressed his hosts, “I wonder if I might speak apart with Miss Barstow, if she is willing.”
Startled by this extraordinary request, Philip looked to Jane and Jane to Frances.
Frances, who would have liked to retort that, no, as a matter of fact, she was not willing.
But that would have been a lie. She could not possibly refuse, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life consumed with unsatisfied curiosity.
And unsatisfied heartache, whispered a voice in her head which she ruthlessly suppressed.
“If you like,” was her surly reply.
After studying her sister’s face to gauge her sincerity, Jane Egerton looked about her. “Well, I suppose you might speak in Philip’s study, if Friese builds a fire. Or Philip and I might retire to the nursery—”
“The study, the study will do,” Frances interrupted, hating to think of poor Philip and Jane expelled from their own cozy parlor to stand upstairs while Baby Pippa slept.
She was certain it was hard enough for Philip to accede to the unusual request, given his strong sense of propriety, and the sooner it was all over, the better.
Before anyone could say anything else, she stalked from the room, leaving Mr. Hearne to spring up in her wake.
The Egertons’ parsonage was not overlarge, which meant Philip’s study had space only for a library case full of books with tooled-leather bindings, a mahogany desk with armchair, and two additional shield-back chairs flanking a pedestal table before the fireplace.
Shivering and wrapping her shawl more tightly about herself, Frances claimed the armchair at once, thinking it wisest to hold this interview with the desk between them, and Mr. Hearne accordingly picked up one of the shield-back chairs and angled it to face her.
“Miss Barstow—”
But here the door banged open to admit Friese, who scurried in with an apologetic scrape and began to sweep out the remains of the morning’s fire, before kneeling down to build a new one.
The presence of an audience making her conscious, she made an inordinate amount of noise, clanking shovel and tongs against fire irons and bucket, and dropping the wood and tinder box.
With the latter she then struggled, bobbling the flint and striker until Mr. Hearne murmured, “Allow me,” simply to be rid of her.