“She does not sound very droll,” Cassandra observed. “She sounds unfortunately like ourselves. I fear she shall disappoint.”
“Then disappoint she must!” I cried. “For I cannot always be writing of Fortune’s darlings—those dowerless chits whose beauty and understanding conquer the most mercenary of fellows. No, Cassandra, in Emma Watson I mil have the truth of a penniless woman’s prospects.”
“Then she is not to marry? I thought her destined for Lord Osborne.”
“Lord Osborne!”
“But I forget. Even you, dedicated to truth, would not have a woman marry a man she did not love, merely to ensure her future.” My sister’s gaze was too indulgent; and I knew her to be laughing at me.
“Very well—Emma will marry—but do not laugh, Cassandra, I beg of you!” I protested, as she threw back her head in delight. “One cannot end a novel without marriages all around. Emma shall marry, though never Lord Osborne. For, you know, we must marry.”
“Do you speak of ourselves, Jane,” Cassandra enquired, sobered at once, “or merely of the plight of women in general? I do agree that it appears the only role of dignity accorded to us—the sole method of securing fortune, position, and respectability in society—but I cannot say that merely this is enough to recommend the state.”
“For you, dear Cassandra—never.” That I thought of poor Tom Fowle, dead these seven years, and with him all my sister’s affections and hopes, I need not underline.2From her expression, I knew her overcome by a similar sensibility. “And for myself—I could do very well single. A little company, and a pleasant ball now and then, would be enough for me.”
“If one could be young forever,” Cassandra said quietly. “I might have married, had I never lost Tom Fowler— but then, very few people marry their first attachments.”
“Better to stay unmarried than to marry for anything but attachment, Cassandra. You cannot believe otherwise; I am sure you cannot.”
“But you know, Jane—you know better than anyone— that it is very bad to grow old, and be poor, and laughed at. And my father will hardly support us forever.”3
“Well!” I cried, “let us make the most of our time, while he still does! We are in Lyme, Cassandra; we are young; we might yet simper at Mr. Milsop as he measures out some lace, or glance sidelong under our parasols at an idle fool of a fellow on every street corner. There remain to us yet your blushing surgeon, Mr. Dagliesh, and the lame Captain Fielding. Let us exert ourselves, though summer wanes, and try what Fortune offers!”
I had no sooner voiced this battle cry, than the very gendemen mentioned were shown in by the housemaid Jenny, her heart-shaped face and glad blue eyes all wonderment at the surprise of it. A morning visit—and the very morning after the ball!4 This was singular behaviour indeed. But perhaps, I thought, as I thrust my writing paper under a book, kept upon the Pembroke table for just such a purpose, not so very singular for Lyme. The common ways of society are not to be expected in a town whose general air is so easy.
“Mr. Dagliesh,” I said, rising in greeting, “Captain Fielding. I have the honour to present my sister to you, Captain. Miss Cassandra Austen.”
Fielding bowed his fair head, and smiled his warm smile, and was so exacdy as my description had led Cassandra to expect, that she met him with tolerable composure. Mr. Dagliesh, however, was in a pitiable state—now waxing red, now waning white, as his eyes sought any resting place but my sister’s face. His discomposure, and some hint of its cause, reduced Cassandra to a confused silence; and that he might mistake her air for one of disdain, was all the more probable.
“You are abroad very early, sirs,” I said, offering them each a chair. “Late hours must agree with you.”
“For my part,” Captain Fielding protested, “I should not have come near Wings cottage for anything—but I encountered Mr. Dagliesh on my way, and he declared himself bound to come, for a report on his fair patient; and I was then very ready to accompany him.”
“And we are the happier, in knowing ourselves able to greet you,” I replied, with a look for Cassandra, “for in another hour, we should have been gone. We are to visit Mr. Crawford’s fossil site with my father.”
“Capital!” Captain Fielding cried. “Old Crawford can be tiresome regarding his particular passions, but never in such a landscape. You shall enjoy it exceedingly. Did business in town not claim my attention this morning, I should be spelling for an invitation myself.”
“I thought to find Sidmouth with you, Miss Austen,” Mr. Dagliesh broke in, with a quick look for Cassandra. “I met him not an hour ago, on his way to this very house.”
At the mention of the name, my unruly pulse would quicken; and being unable to meet Captain Fielding’s eyes, and incapable of speech, I sought comfort in silence.
“I assure you, Mr. Dagliesh,” my sister replied after an instant, “we have seen nothing of Mr. Sidmouth. Though I should dearly relish the opportunity; I had not the strength to thank him as I ought, the day we parted from High Down Grange.”
A short silence fell at this; and I seized the moment to observe Captain Fielding, the better to know his thoughts. That Mr. Sidmouth was an intimate at Wings cottage must make him wonder; and yet his face bore no outward sign of concern. He seemed not quite at ease, however; he was not glad in Dagliesh’s company. Though it may have been my imagination supplied what Nature failed to do.
“I might yet have the pleasure of joining you, all the same,” the Captain said then, as though continuing a previous thought; I might persuade you both to drive out in my barouche5 when you tire of your visit to the cliffs. Crawford’s pits are not far off my road home. When my business is concluded, I shall venture your way, and enquire if a drive is pleasing.”
“You are all consideration, Captain,” I told him. “I am sure a gende turn in the sea air should do Cassandra a world of good.”
“And what is your opinion, Dagliesh?”
“I do not think her quite recovered. Indeed, had I been asked, I should have advised against even the trip to Crawford’s,” the surgeon replied. He folded his arms across his chest, and studied the worn drugget, his countenance gaining a most mulish aspect. “The jolting of a carriage can only revive her injuries. It is not to be thought of.”
“Oh, come, man!” Fielding cried with impatience. “She is in the bloom of health. She is quite obviously well. Are not you well, Miss Austen?”
“Indeed, I feel myself to be not indisposed,” Cassandra said, faltering, with an eye for Mr. Dagliesh. “I grow quite weary of sitting always within doors.”
“And how do the roads, Captain Fielding, that you intend traversing? Are they rutted and poor, such as should incommode my sister?” I enquired.
“The roads are capital,”6 he said with a dismissive wave, “and my barouche even better. You shall not suffer the slightest jolt, Miss Austen, I assure you. Dagliesh cannot know anything of the matter; he is hardly accustomed to the sort of conveyance I own, and mistakes its effects for his own poor trap.”
The intended rudeness of the remark struck home; Mr. Dagliesh coloured, bit his lip, and as abruptly rose.
“I see that I have offered an opinion where none is wanted,” he burst out. “I shall take care before offering the same again. My compliments, Miss Austen, Miss Jane Austen.”7 And with the briefest of nods to the Captain, he quitted the room, to our surprise and dismay.
“A touchy fellow!” Fielding said, with a hollow laugh; but his words were drowned in some commotion from the hallway, and the sound of men’s voices too indistinct for comprehension. Another moment of suspense, and the door was thrown wide to admit a caller, and a gentleman—none other than Mr. Sidmouth!
Captain Fielding turned—saw him—and turned away. He had declined to offer any greeting, and the insult must be felt Mr. Sidmouth, however, appeared insensible of Fielding’s very presence, and maintained his careful expression of good breeding. That he maintained it with difficulty, I guessed from the rapid flexing of his
fingers, and clutched my own hands involuntarily.
“Mr. Sidmouth!” I cried, in some anxiety of spirit. “You honour us indeed, with so early a visit!”
“I must apologise if my presence has in any way disturbed the course of your morning,” he replied, with a glance for Fielding. I am come to enquire of Miss Austen’s health, and should have setded the point with the housemaid at the very door, did not I encounter Dagliesh, and learn that you were even now entertaining a visitor. It is a pleasure indeed, Miss Austen, to find you in such good looks. I trust you shall be journeying to Mr. Crawford’s today.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sidmouth. That 1 am present at all, I am sure is due to your good offices.” Cassandra spoke all the warmth of her gratitude; and I saw Fielding’s surprise. That she bore no reservations towards Geoffrey Sidmouth was evident in her attitude of eager attention; that I had imparted nothing of all he had told me, to my dearest sister, was clear in her unguarded thanks.
“I did nothing any person of feeling and decency would not do,” Sidmouth replied, taking the chair Dagliesh had vacated. In sitting, he adjusted it slightly so as to place Fielding at his back. I am rewarded entirely by finding you much improved, under Dagliesh’s care. He is a surgeon’s assistant of some ability—and should have been a physician,8 I believe, had his fortune been the greater. With time and Mr. Carpenter’s careful instruction, however, he is likely to possess such a practice and home as will make all apology unwarranted.”
“Considering the many cases you put him in the way of, I do not doubt it,” Captain Fielding said drily. “You might almost be taking a finder’s fee.”
Sidmouth sat back, his face grave and his lips compressed. Cassandra looked conscious, and coloured.
“Indeed, Mr. Sidmouth engaged Mr. Dagliesh’s services on my sister’s behalf, Captain,” I interjected, “and we are heartily glad he did so. For as strangers to Lyme, we could not have had the choosing of a surgeon; and Mr. Sidmouth’s valuation of his friend has been amply proved, in Cassandra’s regained health.”
“I am very sorry—I did not intend—that is to say, I knew nothing of it,” Captain Fielding stammered, in some mortification.
“I wonder if that is not often the case,” Mr. Sidmouth rejoined quietly, his eyes upon mine.
Captain Fielding rose with some effort on his game leg, and reached for his hat. “I must beg leave of this pleasant abode, Miss Austen,” he said, with a bow to Cassandra, “and hope that my business does not detain me too long. I look forward to diis afternoon.”
“This afternoon?” Mr. Sidmouth enquired, stiffening.
“Indeed.” Captain Fielding looked all his satisfaction. “I am to drive the young ladies about Charmouth once they have done visiting Crawford’s fossil site.”
Mr. Sidmouth consulted the large pocket watch that hung from the chain of his waistcoat; and very handsome it was, too. “Then you had best be about your business, Fielding,” he replied smoothly, “for you should not wish to find the party gone upon your arrival. I came, it is true, to enquire after Miss Austen’s health; but having been assured of its excellent tendency, I am free to broach my second errand.” He turned his attention to Cassandra and me. “I am come in Crawford’s barouche expressly to fetch the Miss Austens, and their father; we are all to be of the party, Fielding, you see. Quite a delightful affair; and it is a pity you shall miss it.”
The transformation of Captain Fielding’s face was singular to behold, but there was nothing to be said; and with a bow to myself, and the barest of nods for Sidmouth, he turned for the door. It being evident that the entry was never to be without bustle, the poor Captain encountered my father and mother there, only just returned from the Golden Lion; and upon hearing them successful in their errand, and Henry and Eliza behind, I knew Mr. Sidmouth should be rewarded in his scheme. My father was only too happy to be saved the trouble of hiring a rig; the offer of Mr. Crawford’s barouche was gladly accepted; and so, with an air of suppressed triumph not unwarranted by events, Mr. Sidmouth helped my family to their places. My mother alone remained behind, declaring herself untempted by the prospect of rocks, and extremely dirty ones at that; and not all the attractions of a ride in an open carriage, in delightful weather, could persuade her.
“And the barouche is filled, besides,” she pointed out, as she came to the street to wave goodbye. “I do not think that Jane shall find a place.”
“I am afraid the interior «very much occupied,” Mr. Sidmouth said, surveying the four faces turned expectantly my way, “and I should not like to worsen your sister’s delicate health, by incommoding her further. It seems you have but one choice, Miss Jane Austen—to remain at home, or ride up front with me.”
At my hesitation, he approached, and added in a low ered tone, “I was denied the felicity of a dance last evening, for reasons I shall not ask. You cannot be inclined to disappoint all your family, who wait upon your decision. Do 1 presume too much, Miss Jane Austen of Bath—or will you do me the honour of sitting on the box?”
1 If one can judge by the appearance of Austen’s extant manuscripts—Sanditon, for example—she made a habit of writing on small sheets of folded paper, which could be readily hidden if a visitor intruded upon her privacy. These sheets were then assembled in book form, and the pages hand-sewn through at the fold. It would appear she is speaking here of her unfinished work, The Watsons, which Austen scholars believe she began sometime in 1804. The manuscript paper bears an 1803 watermark. —Editors note.
2 Cassandra was engaged in 1795 to marry the Reverend Thomas Craven Fowle, son of the Austens lifelong friends, and a protege of Lord Craven, whose naval expedition to the West Indies Fowle felt obligated to join that same year. He died of yellow fever in San Domingo in February 1797, aged 29. He left Cassandra a legacy of one thousand pounds. She never married. —Editor’s note.
3 This conversation with Cassandra regarding marriage must have impressed Jane, because it eventually found its way, in amended form, into The Watsons manuscript. —Editors note.
4 Only intimates of the family were accustomed to visit before noon, while acquaintances usually paid calls before dinner. —Editors note.
5 A barouche was considered quite fancy in the first part of the nineteenth century. It had two seats facing each other, and held four people comfortably; the landau top folded back in the middle, to make it an open carriage often used for country outings. It was drawn by anywhere from two to six horses. —Editor’s note.
6 Captain Fielding probably refers to the relative newness of the roads. Lyme was inaccessible to wheeled traffic until 1759, when a turnpike was built leading into the town; all land transportation prior to that date was done by pack horse. —Editors note.
7 In die presence of several members of an untitled family, it was customary to address the eldest child by the tide Miss, or Mister, with younger siblings distinguished by the tide and their first names. Thus the ordering of rank was preserved; similarly, the eldest would pass in and out of the room before die next youngest child in age, and so on to the youngest. —Editor’s note.
8 Surgeons were considered common village tradesmen rather than educated professionals, such as physicians» and their wives could not be presented at Court, while physicians” wives could. —Editor’s note.
7 September, cont.
∼
THE DRIVE WAS HARDLY A LONG ONE, FOR MR. CRAWFORD’S FOSSIL site was among the cliffs below Charmouth about two miles from Lyme, and indeed, but a stone’s throw from the heights of the Grange. And so, the penalty for cowardice being the loss of such a pleasure party, I bowed to Fate and allowed Mr. Sidmouth to hand me up onto the barouche’s box, and waited stiff-backed while he setded himself beside me, and took up the team’s reins. I had never before had the occasion to watch a gendeman drive four-in-hand, and must declare myself quite fascinated; his strong, broad fingers in their leather driving gloves seemed endowed with a particular sensibility, that read the intentions of each animal’s mouth a
lmost before it was itself aware of them. As we headed east up the long coastal road, however, the team picked up speed; and the effects of wind and motion so high upon an unprotected seat almost unnerved me. I would not allow myself the indulgence of giving way—no feminine shrieks, no pitiful hands clutching at Mr. Sidmouth’s arm—but rather maintained a stoic appearance as 1 swayed beside him; and if my jaw was clenched and my fingers knotted, I pray he was too intent upon the road to spare either a thought.
“How fortunate that the weather is fine,” he said, after a time, “and yet, not too fine—not so very dry that we should have a cloud of dust before and behind. One wants a little rain at night, when one embarks upon a plan of driving.”
“Mr. Crawford is very good to think of us, and to endeavour to afford so many so much pleasure,” I said.
“Crawford is always bent upon pleasing. It is his chief fault.”
“His fault! Can goodwill and generosity ever be so considered?”
“When they lead to obligation, I believe they can,” Mr. Sidmouth replied. “Cholmondeley Crawford is a wealthy man, and may have the pleasure of doing as he likes; but some of those he entertains, cannot afford to treat him in a like manner, and the mortification of it goes unnoticed by the man himself. If the distinctions of rank have any value, it would seem that they should be preserved, if only to prevent embarrassment.”
“If this is a fault, then Mr. Crawford has chosen wisely,” I cried. “I should rather be charged with doing too much, of being too easy, than of being above my company. Pride is a quality I abhor beyond all things. However justified by the accomplishments of the possessor, it renders the power to do good, onerous when once bestowed. We none of us like condescension when it is offered.”
Jane and the Man of the Cloth Page 8