Held out for my inspection were a delicately-netted pair, of the finest cotton lace. “Valenciennes,” Mr. Milsop said, with the profoundest satisfaction; “and very dear.”

“Then I fear they shall not do, for a seaside resort, where one is much exposed to the elements,” I replied, with regret. “Such dust and sand, as fly about these streets, should have them soiled in a moment” I scanned the counter's array, and selected a pair of simple cotton gloves, undoubtedly the cheapest on offer in the establishment, and very like the ones I presently wore. Mr. Milsop's face fell; but he rallied, as was his wont, and found a virtue in simplicity.

“Such retiring taste — such a repugnance of show! Not for Miss Jane Austen the vulgarities of Spanish lace; she is the very soul of delicacy! I quite agree. Indeed, I applaud your choice. With consideration, one sees that no other glove in the world could be so suited to your hand. That will be four shillings.”

There was a murmuring behind me, while the little show of exchanging coins occurred; and with a pricking of my ears, I knew the three ladies whose privilege I had displaced, were discussing the very incident of which I wished to learn more.

“His face was quite ghastly,” said the eldest — a bold, queer-looking woman in her middle thirties, with the accent of an Englishwoman raised in Ireland. That accounted for the boldness, and perhaps the queerness as well — which must be said to have begun with her height, which was considerable, and her dress, a vivid green and white drapery in the Greek style, which swooped low across bosom and back, and was held at the shoulders by polished-steel clips in the form of heraldic arms. Quite unsuitable for day, unless I am hopelessly behindhand in my fashions; but her independence of attire was exceeded only by that of her slanting dark eyes, which roved everywhere, and drew back from no one.

“You cannot mean to say you saw it, Mrs. Barnewall!” ejaculated one of her companions — a sharp-featured girl of perhaps four-and-twenty, with ginger hair and an incompatible taste for pink.

“Saw it — alas, I had not the pleasure. I had the news of my tyger[19], who ran up to the gibbet when he should have been holding the horses.”

“The violence of the lower orders is not to be credited,” the ginger-haired girl observed. “Why, only last week, Father ordered a tenant of ours be hanged; for you know that Father is a justice, and the man had poached one of our deer. Only imagine! So brazen! But it was an example, for the fellow had seven children, and his widow is turned out; so that now I fancy our deer shall run unmolested in the park.”

“For heaven's sake, Letty,” the youngest of the three rejoined faintly, “do not talk so about the odious Cogginses. It quite turns my stomach; and you know I have not been at all well today. I think I shall have some of that yellow muslin, with the scattered border; I am sure it should improve my spirits immeasurably.”

“You have spent your purse already, and Father shall have my head for it,” ginger-haired Letty replied; and tucking her sister's arm beneath her own, she exited the shop in all the complacency native to the possessor of a deer-park, however many unfortunates might be hanged to ensure its continuance.

“Mr. Milsop,” the bold Irishwoman said, with an eye my way, “you have not been very kind. In fact, I must quite accuse you of cruelty. You have extolled the virtues of this lady to everyone who might listen; and yet, you deny us the felicity of an introduction. I am sure you mean to keep her acquaintance all to yourself, for fear that she shall like others better, and desert you.”

“My dear Mrs. Barnewall!” the counter fop cried. “It would be an ecstasy to make hvo such examples of womanly excellence, known the one to the other” And before I could demur, he had turned to his office with alacrity.

“Miss Austen, may I introduce to your acquaintance Mrs. Mathew Barnewall, of Kingsland. Mrs. Barnewall, Miss Austen — of Bath, was it not?”

“Your faculty for placing your patrons is indeed remarkable, Mr. Milsop,” I replied, and shook Mrs. Barnewall's hand.

“Bath! How delightful! You are a native of the place?” that lady enquired.

“I am not,” I replied, “and, in truth, I cannot think of anyone who is. But that is to be expected, when one makes a pleasure-place a home.”

“Indeed. You trade one pleasure-place for another, I see, in visiting Lyme.”

“Ah! But the two are so different! The one merely called a pleasure-place, from convention and long familiarity; and the other, so infinitely capable of inspiring real happiness!”

I could not keep the admiration from my accent. Lyme is a town that has become dear to me, for reasons I cannot fully explain; unless it be that the smallness of such a place, particularly after its season has closed, offers a peace and solitary beauty I cannot find in Bath or London — a peace denied me since my removal from dear Steventon.

“You think such a village charming, then?” Mrs. Barnewall said, with obvious disbelief.

“Certainly there is little to admire in the buildings themselves,” I conceded; “but the remarkable situation of the town! The principal street, almost hurrying into the water! The pleasant manner in which the Cobb skirts the bay, and the beautiful line of cliffs stretching to the east! — These are what a stranger's eye will seek, and a very strange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the immediate environs, to make her wish to know Lyme better!”[20]

“But the people are so coarse, in general; one rarely encounters good society, beyond the doors of the Assembly Rooms. At this time of year, the town is overrun with common labourers and fisherfolk; and the degradations to which one is subjected! You have heard, I suppose, of the hanged man.”

“Only a little,” I said coolly. “But men may be hanged anywhere, I believe. I had understood it to be quite a common thing in Ireland.”

“But in such a manner!” my new acquaintance cried. “The placement of the gibbet! The placard hung about his neck! The binding of his hands and feet! The mutilation of his features!”

“Of all these, 1 had not heard,” I said, with greater interest. “There was a placard, you say?”

“Assuredly, my dear girl.” Mrs. Barnewall advanced rather too rapidly to terms of intimacy for my taste, but in search of further particulars, I ignored her familiarity. “My tyger told me all of it. ‘Done for as he did,’ the words read, in ragged letters; and it was hung about his neck with a bit of fishing twine, of the sort such folk use for their nets.”

“How very odd!” I said thoughtfully. “One supposes such violence to be the result of a bitter feud among the fishermen.”

“Undoubtedly,” Mrs. Barnewall replied, and loosed her parasol. “I trust, Miss Austen, I shall see you tonight at the Assembly. Not that it is worth the trouble of attending; neither so very good company, as to be called select, nor so very bad, that one might fancy it dangerously exciting. But when in Lyme, it may be termed a delight, for want of competition.” And with a nod for Mr. Milsop, she took her leave.

“What a very singular lady,” I said.

The draper stiffened and surveyed me narrowly with his quizzing glass. “The Honourable Mathew Barnewall is to be a viscount. He is heir to extensive estates in Ireland.”

“And yet, even that does not explain his wife, my dear sir.” I drew on my new gloves with a smile, and left the spotted pair on Milsop's counter.

IT WAS AS I APPROACHED WlNGS COTTAGE THAT A PROCESSION FROM the Cobb neared where I stood, and I pressed hard against a neighbouring building so that they might more easily pass. A glimpse only of their sad burden did I have; but it was enough to nearly overpower me. Do not think, however, that it was the corpse's starting eyes, or its lolling tongue, or what Mrs. Barnewall had airily termed a “mutilation”—in this instance, a knife slash that opened one cheek — all these, I could have withstood. But the source of my faintness upon viewing the hanged man was entirely of another order. For I had seen these features and this fellow before — and only the previous afternoon, as he lounged in the doorway opposite, hurling what I believed to be drunken insults at the angelic Seraphine. The man had appeared to earn Geoffrey Sidmouth's contempt on that occasion, and possibly his rage. But as the body slowly passed, I wondered with a chill in my heart whether his impertinence had cost him even dearer — whether it had won him, in fact, the brutal manner of his death.