We were silent a moment, in gazing upon the chalk heights, and the excavations of Mr. Crawford's labourers; and it was then that Mr. Sidmouth turned to me, and took my hand. He turned over the palm, and pressed into it a fragment of rock, perhaps six inches across, with the barest impression of a life-form. A shell, it seemed to me; the remnant of a forgotten sea creature, curled like a ram's horn. The sensation of movement was palpable— whorling away within the rock for thousands of years, adrift in the seas of time.

“What is it?” I enquired.

“The rock is Blue Lias,” Mr. Sidmouth said. “Much of these Char mouth cliffs are formed of it.”

“And the creature?”

“An ammonite. Though a very small one. Crawford has others, full six feet across.”

I looked, and marvelled. (And I am still gazing at it, as I write — having propped the bit on the bedroom dresser at Wings cottage.) “Thank you,” I said, looking into Mr. Sidmouth's grave dark eyes. Our discord of the drive appeared entirely forgotten. “It is very beautiful.”

“There is something of eternity in it,” he said.[39]

IT WAS SEVERAL HOURS LATER, AFTER THE CRAWFORDS’ EXCELLENT repast was consumed, and we had listened with as much sympathy as we could muster to Miss Crawford's sad history of her blighted romance with one Jonas Filch — who died of a fever, thus leaving his fiancee to wear black for the subsequent thirty years — that Cassandra and I persuaded Eliza to walk with us along the water. We had left poor Henry and Miss Armstrong in Miss Crawford's grip (while she recounted for their edification the good works she superintended as the head of St. Michael's Ladies Auxiliary), and coursed along the beach. We discovered, to our delight, a small cavern not far from the fossil site, its entrance marked with a cairn of stones; but Cassandra lacked the courage to venture inwards, and I would not go alone. I could look for no aid from Eliza's quarter— she was delighted with the cave's discovery, but too concerned with the possible ruin of her apparel to try its interior. “A cavern, Jane, as foetid and dank as Mrs. Radcliffe[40] should make it! Shall we venture within, at the very peril of our lives?”

“You know very well, Eliza, that a heroine must be alone to invite peril,” I said; “but let us venture all the same. We may fancy ourselves exposed to mortal danger, and so achieve a modest victory in braving the cavern's terrors together.”

But Eliza's attention, as readily let slip as it was secured, had already wandered. She preferred gossip to trials of courage, and made a very poor adventuress indeed.

“I am quite taken with your Mr. Sidmouth, Jane,” she declared, having traded the cavern for a seat on a weathered log. “Such tempests of emotion as are graven upon his countenance! First, the darkest of clouds; and then, as if under the influence of a warm breeze, the threat of rain is swept away, and sunlight breaks! Upon first espying his countenance before the Lyme Assembly, I thought it quite ugly; not a single feature may be called handsome. And yet the whole is not displeasing. I could watch the play of his emotions for hours.”

“It would appear that you already have,” Cassandra observed.

I feigned disinterest, and prodded at some seaweed with a piece of driftwood I had seized for a walking stick.

The tide being quite low, all manner of sea-life was washed up upon the shore, and every step afforded new wonders.

“And so much the man of the world,’” Eliza continued, as though Cassandra had never spoken. “I felt myself almost returned to Paris, in the course of our nuncheon!”[41]

“You were singularly engrossed.” Cassandra straightened up from the sand with a bit of sea-glass in her hands. “This appears to be a fragment of a bottle, Jane — cast overboard from a passing ship. Only think, if it should have fallen from one of our brothers’ hands!”

“Mr. Sidmouth is quite an habitue of that dear city,” Eliza resumed. “It seems he has occasion to travel to France fairly often — or did, before the peace ended.”

“Indeed?” I was compelled to attend to her chatter despite myself. “And what could be his reason for such travel? I had understood that those French relations he once possessed were all murdered in the revolt.”

“Oh! I daresay he is in some line of trade.” Eliza's tone was careless. “Though while the Monster yet holds the throne of France in thrall, all trade is at an end. Mr. Sidmouth and I are quite agreed that now Buonaparte has crowned himself Emperor, and has begun to murder his opponents[42], the condition of the country can only worsen. I was forced to turn the conversation, in fact, from fear that the gentleman's opinions should become too heated. He grew quite warm in his discussion of French policy, and that, with a lady.”

“In trade?” I said, all wonderment. “He certainly gives no indication of it. I should have thought Mr. Sidmouth a gentleman of easy circumstances.”

“Even a man with four thousand a year, my dear Jane, may use his property in a profitable fashion.” Eliza was all impatience. “I cannot name for you the legions of gentlemen in London alone who serve as Venturers[43] for all manner of commercial enterprise. Their money is their proxy — they may benefit from its utility in the hands of others, and keep their own fingers clean of such vulgar stuff as buying and selling.”

“How very extraordinary,” Cassandra murmured.

I turned to agree with her; and found she was absorbed in examining a fragment of shell. “The whorls and chambers of this bit of stuff — this sea-creature's home — are as fully a work of art as any Italian sculpture. How wonderful is Nature!”

Put out of temper with both my companions, I left the water's edge and wandered aimlessly back towards the fossil site. I was required to stop, however, and glance about to find my way; Charmouth beach at such an hour was crowded with pleasure-seekers, attempting the waters in bathing machines, or walking with some difficulty through the heavy drift of sand. I raised a hand to my brow and narrowed my eyes, the better to find a familiar face — and stopped short in my survey, upon sighting what could only be an overturned skiff drawn up on the shingle, quite barnacled and scraped about its exterior, as from heavy use. What paint remained upon its wood, however, was a rich, deep green.

I approached it slowly, my pulse at fever pitch, the thought of the ring at the end of the Cobb my only consideration. Was this the very vessel that had borne the unfortunate Bill Tibbit and his gallows to the stone pier's end? At the skiff's side, I dropped to my knees in the sand, heedless of my muslin, and studied it soberly. Several long scratches were cut deeply into the wood — the result, perhaps, of bobbing against the Gobb in the dead of night, though they might have been acquired in any number of ways.

“Miss Austen,” came a voice at my elbow; and I jumped.

“Mr. Sidmouth!”

“Should you like to take a turn upon the waves?”

I attempted a smile. “I confess, it is not my favoured pursuit, though I am of a Naval family.”

He bent and patted the boat's sturdy prow, from which an anchor, small but mortally sharp, protruded. “La Gascogne could never do you harm,” he said. “She is Lyme-built, and has performed many a useful service.”

“You know the boat, then?” I enquired, its very name having the power to rob me of all complaisance.

“These ten years, at least,” he replied with a smile. “When a local fishing family had no further use for her, I took her under the Grange's wing, and seaworthy she has proved. You are certain you do not wish to take a turn? A pair of stout fellows at the oars, and we should be beyond the surf in a thrice.”