Jane and the Man of the Cloth (18 page)

It was then my occasion to ruminate on last night's Assembly—which, though pleasant, was not very full for Thursday; the Miss Schuylers were gone away some days, and though their return is imminent, I understand from Mrs. Barnewall that they think of quitting Lyme altogether in the coming week. I was actually honoured in Mr. Crawford's asking me to dance
twice,
that gendeman being moved to pity by the dearth of younger fellows in the rooms; though a new, odd-looking man, whom I judged to be Irish by his ease, and in the company of the Honourable Barnewalls,
might
have asked me—but came to the point of it only as I was quitting the rooms.

Mr. Dagliesh was present in the Assembly from the first moment, until called out by Mr. Carpenter to answer the pressing need of a child scalded in a pan of dishwater. At my entering the rooms, the surgeon's assistant was indeed the first acquaintance I perceived—for he hastened to my side, and took my hand so earnesdy, and enquired what news I had of my sister—at which Mr. Crawford intervened.

“Her flight from your ministrations appears to have done her a world of good, Dagliesh, “Mr. Crawford said, with great good humour and a slyly conscious look for the blushing fellow; “I was so very fortunate as to encounter Miss Austen this morning with her party in Weymouth, and found her much improved. I was able to convey the happy intelligence to all her dear family only a few hours ago.”

“Happy, indeed, to have been in so lovely a creature's presence,” Mr. Dagliesh murmured, with a distracted air. “I am relieved to find that Miss Austen's removal did not increase the pain of her injuries.”

“My brother Henry's carriage is so good, and his horses so gentle, that I am sure her passage along the coastal roads occurred without incident,” I assured him. “We were sorry, Mr. Dagliesh, that you failed to make your own
adieux
to my sister; but her departure could not be delayed, as it depended upon die wishes and needs of others; and you
had
said you would attend her very early that morning.”

The gendeman stammered, and looked confused; and indeed, seemed in such an agony of emotion, that I instantly took pity upon him. “But a surgeon's days are never his own to command, as my sister and I fully comprehend. You could not, perhaps, have come any earlier.”

Mr. Dagliesh had appeared at Wings cottage, in all the disorder of extreme haste, some two hours after Cassandra's departure, and his disappointment at the fact suggested that he had been prevented from attending my sister by a sudden interference of events—and that he was quite put out by the loss of his farewell. From his present regret, I received a further conviction of my supposition's truth.

“I was called away suddenly—an injury of some moment—and with no other assistance available,” he said, somewhat brokenly. “Not for anything but the direst circumstance should I have neglected to offer my compliments to Miss Austen. Pray convey them to her at the nearest opportunity, and I shall be the better for having attempted to make amends. I draw some comfort from the news that she is much improved; it is all that I could wish for.”

“You are too good,” I said gently. “I am sure that the knowledge of your heartfelt regard has furthered her recovery.”

The poor gendeman was so much overcome by this notion, as to be rendered almost insensible for several moments; and though he collected himself enough to request my hand for the first dance, he was called away not long thereafter, and so our mutual expectation of felicity—mine, in being so soon solicited, and his, in the prospect of discussing nothing but Cassandra for a full half-hour—were all overthrown.

The circle was somewhat enlivened by the appearance of Miss Lucy Armstrong's father and mother—enlivened by the opportunity their presence afforded, of observing how heartily they are disliked by Miss Crawford. The Armstrongs have come down from Bath (by the terrible post chaise), expressly to retrieve poor Lucy from her summer idyll—and upon my word, idyll it must have been, with all its trials, in comparison to her usual society—for the parents are of a vulgar turn, quite apparent in Mrs. Armstrong's choice of gown, a brilliant yellow silk with black jet beads running the length of her very lengthy train
¹
— unsuitable for September, and particularly for Lyme. The lady's manner does not improve upon further acquaintance, for when I visited Lucy yesterday morning—being desperate for female society in the absence of my dear sister—Mrs. Armstrong sat darning a sock the entire time

I was present, and seemed quite given to conversing with herself, through a series of exclamations and sighs, re garding the poor quality of Miss Crawford's housemaid. I do not believe she heard above half a dozen words that passed. But my own mother is little better—being equally adept at self-distraction—and I must desist from mocking the habits of
others,
lest my derision come home to roost.

Miss Armstrong and I soon abandoned her parents for a walk along the Cobb, and the exercise and mutual pleasure in each other's society soon raised our spirits. The girl is a poor substitute for Cassandra or Eliza, but her understanding improves the further she flees from Miss Crawford's sharp tongue; she is conversable in a common way, though I perceive neither wit nor genius. Lucy is possessed of sense, and some degree of taste; and unlike her mother or aunt, her manners are most engaging. I must believe it is
this
quality—a general air of agreeability—that endears her to Mr. Sidmouth; for that he admires her—though to what degree I cannot be certain—is evident in the attention he continues to pay her.
²

I had occasion to observe the gentleman rogue of High Down at the Assembly last evening, for Mr. Sidmouth appeared towards the close of the ball, and well after my father had departed with James and his lanthorn for Wings cottage—disappointed in his hopes of playing at loo, my mother being for commerce, and Captain Fielding moved to affect his attitude of
le Chevalier,
by gallantly acceding to her request that he partner her at the table. In the event, they divided the pot between them—a testament, I fear, to Captain Fielding's superior understanding; for when my mother plays with another as equally prone to forgetfulness as herself, she rarely triumphs in so prosperous a fashion.

But now to Mr. Sidmouth—who, I declare, is possessed of the greatest
sang-froid,
in parading himself before the very society that must have observed his embattled flight a few dawns previous. He was as cool and collected as ever, bowing with frigid gentility in Captain Fielding's direction; and being prevented from partnering myself in the first two dances, by my engagement to Mr. Crawford, he soon made himself available to Miss Armstrong, who was glad enough to take his hand. He was all that could be desired in a partner; he danced well, did not confuse the figures, or trample her pale blue slippers; he attempted to converse, and from what snatches I overheard, kept the talk in a general way; but the fact of his attention seemed to overwhelm his fair partner. I observed that she spent the better part of the hour consigned to his company, with downcast eyes and a scarlet throat— Ah! The delicate sensibility of nineteen!

I wish I could find it in myself to envy Miss Armstrong; I should like to strike the attitude of a slighted heroine, and languish in forsaken love for one or another of the gentlemen thrown in my way; but she is too pale a figure for competition. I am convinced, upon reflection, that Mr. Sidmouth enjoys her company as he might that of a flower found along the roadside—there is little of heat or intensity in his regard. He is not the sort of man for an easy passion.

“Sidmouth!” Mr. Crawford cried, in approaching his friend at the dance's close. “How comes your lovely cousin not to grace the rooms this evening? And T do not recall that she was with us last week, or the week before, if it comes to that. It is too bad of you! We
must have
Mademoiselle LeFevre, if Lyme is to aspire to any real elegance!”

“I regret that my cousin is indisposed this evening,’” Sidmouth returned, with a slight bow and a formal air; “but I shall convey to her your sentiments, which cannot but be pleasing.”

“And she
must
get out, eh? It has been an age since I have seen her—or, more to the point, been delighted by her singing! Come now. You cannot keep her at home in this stupid manner,” Crawford said, with a jocular glance for me. “I am to have a smallish dinner party Saturday e'en—a sort of farewell for my Lucy—and you shall both come. Mademoiselle LeFevre's indisposition, I trust, will be but a trifling matter in four-and-twenty hours?”

“I may not presume to say. But I shall provide her with the opportunity to choose—and try whether the delights of Darby exceed those of High Down.”

“Capital! I shall order a couple of dozen ducks killed on the strength of it—for Mademoiselle cannot give up a dinner at Darby; I am sure of it The Austens, of course, shall be there”—this, with a bow for me—“and one or two others. Capital!”

And so Mr. Crawford moved on, issuing invitations as he went, and leaving me to the mercies of Mr. Sidmouth, who gave me a long look and the barest suggestion of a smile.

“You do not wear your sister's gown this evening,” he observed, “and though the pink
was
becoming, and your own white muslin is more ravishing still, I should prefer to think of you always as you appeared a few mornings ago— like a siren on the rocks, your hair swept by the wind, and your arms wrapped close around a borrowed cloak.”

I blushed hody—and cursed my wayward cheeks, which are too frequently suffused with scarlet, and ever the bane of my existence. The frankness of Sidmouth's speech— the warmth with which the words were spoken—almost unnerved me; but I recollected in time the nature of our parting that morning, and was strengthened enough to meet his eyes.

“I cannot think the episode too soon forgotten!” I cried. “Better you had saved your cloak to hide your shame! The reprehensible nature of your conduct—the blatant admission of your interest in the smugglers’ affairs—and now, to
parade
your renegade self before all of Lyme, and with impunity—it is, in every respect, incredible!”

His countenance changed; and the dark eyes lost their intensity, and became remote. “I can find nothing for which to reproach myself,” he told me. “I acted as any honourable man should, when a friend is endangered; and I should act in a similar way again, should circumstances require it.”

“A friend! You call such a common criminal
friend}”

“I do,” he replied, with a set to his jaw. “I call any man friend who should not hesitate to lay down his life, if need be, in order to preserve my own. Davy Forely has risked as much, on several occasions 1 can number; and my own poor efforts to secure his freedom a few days past, are as nothing in the tally of obligation I owe.”

“You amaze me, sir! Do the claims of a gendeman, of your very country—indeed, of everything affecting your respectability and position in life—have so little power to move you?”

Mr. Sidmouth bowed, and was silent; but that he struggled with conflicting emotions, I perceived in his countenance; and felt that my words, and the truth behind them, had succeeded in striking his hardened heart. Indeed, I believe he would have spoken, had Captain Fielding not approached at that very moment, and with the barest acknowledgement of Sidmouth's presence, requested my hand for the next dance—a cotillion.
³
I was enough possessed by my fever of indignation, to accept him with a very pretty grace; and when I turned to witness the triumph of my regard upon Mr. Sidmouth's features, I found him already across the room, and in the happy company of Miss Armstrong and Mrs. Barnewall.

I regret to say, that though Captain Fielding attempted to engage my attention the length of our half-hour, and exerted the full force of his intelligent person—though he paid me some fulsome compliments, and affected to place me above every other occupant of the room—that my thoughts were abstracted, more often than not, and my gaze
would
wander.

“You are not yourself, Miss Austen; you are decidedly not yourself,” the Captain observed, after several unsuccessful trials at conversation.

“Pray forgive me, sir/’ I replied, with some remorse, and pulled my gaze back to his weathered face. “I am merely distracted by the remembrance of events I witnessed a few days ago.”

“Ah. I recollect. You were there, on The Walk, when Sidmouth showed his hand; I observed you standing in all the appalled recognition of the import of his behaviour.”

“I cannot deny that I was
then
as one amazed; but I am little reassured
now
by his appearance tonight! So easy as he seems, with all of Lyme in possession of his true identity, his unscrupulous way of life!”

“I agree that it is in every way incredible,” Captain Fielding said soberly. “But I expect little else of a man like Sidmouth. His propensities are so very vicious—his principles so very depraved—that even the open acknowledgement of the evil is as nothing to him.”

“Can he be so lost to everything?” I cried, unwilling to believe that any man might be.

“He can, and he is.” Captain Fielding's assurance would have been more acceptable to my ears had it rung less with quiet satisfaction. “But Lyme shall suffer his sort of insolence only a little while longer.”

I almost tripped in my movement through the figure, but recovered, and turned once more to face my partner. “You would apprehend him, then? Why did you not do so, that very morning of which we speak?”

“It would have won us only half our game,” the Captain replied, in a lowered tone. “To take the Reverend, as we might have a few days past with but a little application, should be to leave his confederates abroad and capable of continued Free Trade.”
⁴

“But I thought the men were apprehended! There, on the shingle, and by the dragoons!”

“In the event, our effort was for naught,” the Captain admitted unwillingly. “When the barrels were examined, they were found to contain only common beer, and from the Golden Lion. No, Miss Austen—the Reverend won in the last instance. Mr. Cavendish, the Lyme Customs man, believes the true cargo to have been retrieved during the small hours of morning; and the effort you witnessed at dawn—and which the dragoons thoroughly routed—was but a sham, a diversion for the law. We could apprehend no one, for the unloading of a cargo of beer; and indeed,we were forced to make embarrassing amends, for the blows and injuries the labourers sustained.”