so I pitied and liked him, and showed him to the street with thanks as heartfelt as they were desirous of cloaking my inner mirth.
“You have made a conquest, my dear,” I announced as I regained Cassandra's room. “You must endeavour to find your feet in time for tomorrow's Assembly, since poor Mr. Dagliesh will be quite undone if you fail to appear/ ‘
“It must be impossible,” she replied, her eyes turned upon some inner pain; “the thought of ail motion and music is repugnant to me.”
“And if you truly wish to secure Mr. Dagliesh,” I added reasonably, “by all means, remain elusive. Disappoint his every hope. Make yourself so scarce that he shall come to believe you a lady encountered in a dream, forever out of reach, and thus, forever to be desired.”
“But you shall have the Assembly,” Cassandra observed, ignoring my raillery from long familiarity with its nature. “Pleasure at least shall not be denied to you, dear Jane. And since I cannot go myself, you might have the wearing of my pink gown. I should be the happier to know it is of use.”
“Pink is a color decidedly unsuited to the redness of my complexion, as you very well know,” I replied, as I drew wide the window curtains, so that my sister might gaze upon the waves beyond the Cobb. “I suspect that you make a present of the gown, Cassandra, in order to scare away my suitors, and win them all for yourself.”
“I had entirely forgot your blushes.” Her voice faltered. “I fear I have been forgetting altogether too much. A consequence of the knock, perhaps. Do you think it a permanent one, Jane? Am I to be made quite an idiot by the heedless driving of an heedless postboy?”
“You are not” I said, perching at the bed's foot. “And would you have me attend a ball while my dearest sister lies confined by such cruel woes, as the forgetting of my blushes? You are too good, Cassandra, to think so ill of me.”
“Indeed I am not, Jane!” she cried, sitting up against the pillows perhaps too rapidly, and wincing. “I have caused difficulty and trial enough. You must go, and carry my father with you. James shall light your way with his Ian thorn, there being so little moon.”1
James is our new manservant, acquired, like the portraits of ships that adorn our walls, with the house.
“Very well,” I said, shifting myself from her bedside at the sound of voices below. “I shall attend the Lyme Assembly tomorrow e'en, and wear your pink gown, if only to encourage your envy. I intend you to be quite wildly green, Cassandra, at all my good times; and so encourage you to quit this room as soon as ever you may. For if I am not very much mistaken, my dear, Henry and Eliza are even now at the door; and no one can be abed while Eliza is underfoot. The noise of her chatter alone should banish sleep for a fortnight.”
THERE WAS NO WONDER IN THE APPEARANCE OF MY BROTHER HENRY and his wife, Eliza—who, as well as being my sister2 these six years at least, has ever been my cousin, and as fond of calling Henry's family her own, before she could claim the rights of a daughter, as she has been ever since. Indeed, we had parted from the Henry Austens not many weeks before, during their annual visit to Bath, and the scheme of joining us in our travels was undertaken one morning in the very Pump Room.3 Both declared themselves wild to see Lyme; and very little more was necessary for the achievement of it. Eliza's craving for diversion is so constant, and her enjoyment of pleasure so honest and thorough, that my brother finds it necessary to avoid present tedium, by engaging in relendess plans for future delight; and so, in constant expectation of improvement to her spirits, Eliza makes a tolerable business of living from day to day.
“My dearest Jane!” she now cried, as she threw open the bedroom door. A swift embrace, as from a small whirlwind, and she had moved to my sister's bedside. “And poor, dear Cassandra. Does your head ache very much? Am I disturbing you dreadfully? No matter. We shall have you to rights in little time, I am sure of it You cannot do better than sea air, you know, for all manner of illness; and if that does not cure you, we shall whisk