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 in-stantly 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 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 agreeabil-ity—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