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 train1— 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.”
“I am all astonishment,’” I said faindy, though I felt a ridiculous desire to laugh; and I remembered Mr. Sidmouth’s tousled appearance, and my conviction he had been out all that night previous. Truly the man was despicable. His bravado, his dash, knew no limits.
“But we shall have our man,” Captain Fielding continued. “We have gained intelligence of a landing some few nights hence, and Cavendish will be waiting. A very little rope remains to Mr. Sidmouth, and I may fairly say there is a noose at the end.”
I understood the Captain’s feeling of triumph; but I could not glory in his sentiments. The dance very soon thereafter being come to a close, I parted from the Revenue spy with something like relief, though I chided myself for the contrariety of my feelings. The weight of principle, of all that is nght, must be said to be firmly on Captain Fielding’s side. And yet I cannot be easy at his eagerness to place another man upon the scaffold. However much Geoffrey Sidmouth has cheated the Crown of its due, through years of clandestine importation, I do not think he deserves to die for it. But what do I see as the alternative? Is lawlessness to be permitted, simply because it is effected with a certain style? Jane, Jane! Where are your finer sensibilities? All o’erthrown, by a man with a golden tongue and a mocking glance?
I was sufficiendy out of sorts with myself to summon my mother at the close of the dance, and plead with her for an early return home; and though I took comfort in the notion that I denied Mr. Sidmouth of my company as much as his was denied to me, by my quitting the rooms, I cannot suppose him to have felt equally wounded in the loss. Maddening man! Why will you not be banished from my thoughts?
1 The length of a woman’s train increased with her desire for elegance; Austen usually ascribes a long sweep to her more vulgar characters, such as Isabella Thorpe in Northanger Abbey. —Editor’s twie.
2 Much of this description of the past few days, and Austen’s circle of acquaintance in Lyme, may be found almost verbatim in the surviving letter she wrote to Cassandra the same morning as this journal entry. A copy of that letter was not included in this journal, but can be found in the collected correspondence (Jane. Austen’s tetters, Deirdre LeFaye, ed., Third Edition. Oxford: Oxford Univer sity Press, 1995, Letter #39, page 92). —Editors note.
3 “A brisk dance characterized by intricate figures and frequent changing of partners. Other dances common to the country Assembly Rooms were the minuet—which generally opened a ball—the ecossaise, the contredanse, and a variety of Scotch reels and English country dances. The waltz, considered “fast,” made its first London appearance by 1812, and the quadrille—a type of square dance with music in five movements of varying tempos—in 1816. —Editor’s note.
4 Free Trade was the term smugglers applied to their business, since the purpose of smuggling goods into England was to avoid the numerous and costly taxes applied to a wealth of imported items. —Editor’s note.
Monday, 17 September 1804
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MY HAND IS SHAKING AS I PEN THESE WORDS, AND I FEAR THEY MUST appear remarkably ill upon the page; I cannot credit the anxiety of my own mind, nor the truth of the news it has received—but steady, Jane! and consider your better self. Endeavour to be calm; to reason through events; to find amidst the discomposure of your senses, some resignation to all that has occurred—
I MUST RETURN IN THOUGHT, THEREFORE, TO MR. CRAWFORD’S Darby, and the excellent dinner that gendeman composed in honour of his niece, Lucy Armstrong—for I shall better comprehend the result of violence, only once I have considered its precipitation. Banish, then, the quiet of Sunday, and the gentle service at St. Michael’s, in Church Street; forget yesterday’s bright weather, and my walk into Up Lyme, blest with sunshine and the first turning of the leaves; banish, too, the strange happiness occasioned by Mr. Sidmouth’s attentions during Saturday’s dinner party at Darby, of which more anon—such quiet concerns are all o’erlaid by this morning’s news, of so terrible an import!
My father engaged a chaise Saturday evening to convey us the few miles up the Charmouth road towards Darby, which revealed itself to our sight as a pleasant house of recent construction, tricked out
in red brick and white mouldings, with windows that bowed to Palladio, and a gentle lawn bordered by an orchard on the one side, and a horse-filled paddock on the other. It was a gendeman’s country estate, pretty and well-mannered, with the first candlelight of evening shining from the doorway.
“Reverend Austen! And Mrs. Austen! A pleasure, to be sure!” Mr. Crawford cried, as he descended the stone steps to offer his hand, his sister simpering in his wake. He was quite magnificent in a red waistcoat, and his sparse hair shone with grooming. Miss Crawford, I observed, kept steadfastly to her habitual black, although in deference to the party, she had exchanged bombazine for the finest silk.
“Welcome to Darby, one and all,” our goodly host continued with enthusiasm, “though I must declare myself quite put out at your skill with cards, Mrs. Austen—I suffered such a loss Thursday as must make me your sworn enemy at every future Assembly. Our differences shall be forgot, however, madam, for the length of this evening.”
“The credit must be all Captain Fielding’s,” my mother replied with an effort at modesty; but I knew her to be quite puffed up at her success.
“Then Darby’s card tables assuredly never shall be produced,” Mr. Crawford rejoined, “for the Captain is within, and I shall spend the better part of the evening in preventing a like collusion.”
The affable fellow helped me from the carriage and swept his eyes the length of my pale blue muslin. I confess to having taken especial care with my dress that evening, and of having abandoned my cap for the daring measure of a feathered turban very like my sister Eliza’s, and obtained only a few days previous from Mr. Milsop.
“You are decidedly lovely this evening, Miss Austen. Darby shall be beside itself, we are all got up so fine! For you know/’ Mr. Crawford confided, “I have prevailed upon Sidmouth to bring his cousin, the bewitching Mademoiselle LeFevre; and I perceive them even now at the turning of the drive/’
Jane and the Man of the Cloth Page 13