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