Now, it was otherwise with Mr. Sawyer. Although you and I would have voted him a confirmed bachelor, might even have judged him uncharitably as somewhat rough and unpolished and unrefined, might have scouted the idea of his being in any respect “a ladies’ man,” and laughed outright at his competing with such a double-distilled dandy as the Honourable C., we should thus have only exposed our ignorance of the secret springs and impulses that move that mysterious piece of mechanism—the female mind. Miss Dove, in the absence of any other and nobler game, had not the slightest objection to exercise the different weapons in her armoury on her Mamma’s friend’s friend.
These were of a sufficiently deadly character. Miss Cecilia—or “Cissy,” as they called her at home—without being strictly pretty, was a very attractive young lady. She had a pair of wicked black eyes, with rather thick eyebrows; a high colour; white teeth, which she did not scruple to display on all available occasions; and a laugh so clear and ringing and inspiriting, that it put a man in good-humour in spite of himself. Even in the bitterest of frosts, Papa could not be cross for five minutes together, when “Cissy” set to work to tease him into affability. Also, Miss Dove’s figure was exceedingly round and symmetrical; not an angle nor a corner in those graceful, flowing lines. Her foot and ankle were undeniable, and her hands white and well-shaped. Altogether, she would have passed muster as good-looking in London: it is needless, therefore, to say that she ought to have been placarded “dangerous” in Leicestershire. Nor had this young woman neglected such opportunities of improving her natural advantages as had come in her way. She could play and sing with much taste and tolerable skill; she could waltz down a strong man in pretty good training, without drawing her breath quicker for the exertion; she could ride with a degree of nerve and judgment seldom enjoyed by the softer sex; and, finally, she had a way of looking down, to show her long eyelashes, which in many instances had been productive of much loss and confusion to the adversary.
It was, you see, scarcely a fair match to pit all these qualities against honest John Standish Sawyer, with his coarse hands and feet, his short, square-tailed coat, ill-made boots and breeches, red whiskers, and general diffidence.