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Title: Persuasion

Author: Jane Austen

Release date: February 1, 1994 [eBook #105]
Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/105

Credits: Sharon Partridge and Martin Ward
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Persuasion
by Jane Austen
(1818)

Contents

CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER I.

Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for
his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage; there he
found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; there
his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the
limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations,
arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he
turned over the almost endless creations of the last century; and there, if
every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an
interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite
volume always opened:

“ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL.

“Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15, 1784, Elizabeth,
daughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park, in the county of
Gloucester, by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born
June 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, November 5,
1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791.”
Precisely such had the paragraph originally stood from the printer’s
hands; but Sir Walter had improved it by adding, for the information of
himself and his family, these words, after the date of Mary’s birth
—“Married, December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles
Musgrove, Esq. of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset,” and by inserting
most accurately the day of the month on which he had lost his wife.
Then followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable family,
in the usual terms; how it had been first settled in Cheshire; how mentioned
in Dugdale, serving the office of high sheriff, representing a borough in
three successive parliaments, exertions of loyalty, and dignity of baronet, in
the first year of Charles II, with all the Marys and Elizabeths they had

married; forming altogether two handsome duodecimo pages, and
concluding with the arms and motto:—“Principal seat, Kellynch Hall, in the
county of Somerset,” and Sir Walter’s handwriting again in this finale:—
“Heir presumptive, William Walter Elliot, Esq., great grandson of the
second Sir Walter.”
Vanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter Elliot’s character;
vanity of person and of situation. He had been remarkably handsome in his
youth; and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man. Few women could think
more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could the valet of any
new made lord be more delighted with the place he held in society. He
considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the blessing of a
baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united these gifts, was the
constant object of his warmest respect and devotion.
His good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his attachment; since
to them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to any thing
deserved by his own. Lady Elliot had been an excellent woman, sensible
and amiable; whose judgement and conduct, if they might be pardoned the
youthful infatuation which made her Lady Elliot, had never required
indulgence afterwards. She had humoured, or softened, or concealed his
failings, and promoted his real respectability for seventeen years; and
though not the very happiest being in the world herself, had found enough
in her duties, her friends, and her children, to attach her to life, and make it
no matter of indifference to her when she was called on to quit them. Three
girls, the two eldest sixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother
to bequeath, an awful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance
of a conceited, silly father. She had, however, one very intimate friend, a
sensible, deserving woman, who had been brought, by strong attachment to
herself, to settle close by her, in the village of Kellynch; and on her
kindness and advice, Lady Elliot mainly relied for the best help and
maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she had been
anxiously giving her daughters.
This friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever might have been
anticipated on that head by their acquaintance. Thirteen years had passed
away since Lady Elliot’s death, and they were still near neighbours and
intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other a widow.

That Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and extremely well
provided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs no
apology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonably discontented
when a woman does marry again, than when she does not; but Sir Walter’s
continuing in singleness requires explanation. Be it known then, that Sir
Walter, like a good father, (having met with one or two private
disappointments in very unreasonable applications), prided himself on
remaining single for his dear daughters’ sake. For one daughter, his eldest,
he would really have given up any thing, which he had not been very much
tempted to do. Elizabeth had succeeded, at sixteen, to all that was possible,
of her mother’s rights and consequence; and being very handsome, and very
like himself, her influence had always been great, and they had gone on
together most happily. His two other children were of very inferior value.
Mary had acquired a little artificial importance, by becoming Mrs Charles
Musgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of character,
which must have placed her high with any people of real understanding,
was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no weight, her
convenience was always to give way—she was only Anne.
To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued god-
daughter, favourite, and friend. Lady Russell loved them all; but it was only
in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again.
A few years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her
bloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father had found
little to admire in her, (so totally different were her delicate features and
mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing in them, now that she
was faded and thin, to excite his esteem. He had never indulged much hope,
he had now none, of ever reading her name in any other page of his
favourite work. All equality of alliance must rest with Elizabeth, for Mary
had merely connected herself with an old country family of respectability
and large fortune, and had therefore given all the honour and received none:
Elizabeth would, one day or other, marry suitably.
It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she
was ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been neither ill
health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely any charm is lost. It
was so with Elizabeth, still the same handsome Miss Elliot that she had
begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter might be excused, therefore,

in forgetting her age, or, at least, be deemed only half a fool, for thinking
himself and Elizabeth as blooming as ever, amidst the wreck of the good
looks of everybody else; for he could plainly see how old all the rest of his
family and acquaintance were growing. Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every
face in the neighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow’s
foot about Lady Russell’s temples had long been a distress to him.
Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment. Thirteen
years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and directing with a
self-possession and decision which could never have given the idea of her
being younger than she was. For thirteen years had she been doing the
honours, and laying down the domestic law at home, and leading the way to
the chaise and four, and walking immediately after Lady Russell out of all
the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms in the country. Thirteen winters’
revolving frosts had seen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty
neighbourhood afforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she
travelled up to London with her father, for a few weeks’ annual enjoyment
of the great world. She had the remembrance of all this, she had the
consciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets and some
apprehensions; she was fully satisfied of being still quite as handsome as
ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, and would have
rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited by baronet-blood within
the next twelvemonth or two. Then might she again take up the book of
books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth, but now she liked it
not. Always to be presented with the date of her own birth and see no
marriage follow but that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and
more than once, when her father had left it open on the table near her, had
she closed it, with averted eyes, and pushed it away.
She had had a disappointment, moreover, which that book, and especially
the history of her own family, must ever present the remembrance of. The
heir presumptive, the very William Walter Elliot, Esq., whose rights had
been so generously supported by her father, had disappointed her.
She had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had known him to be, in
the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant to marry him,
and her father had always meant that she should. He had not been known to
them as a boy; but soon after Lady Elliot’s death, Sir Walter had sought the
acquaintance, and though his overtures had not been met with any warmth,

he had persevered in seeking it, making allowance for the modest drawing-
back of youth; and, in one of their spring excursions to London, when
Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr Elliot had been forced into the
introduction.
He was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the
law; and Elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his
favour was confirmed. He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talked of
and expected all the rest of the year; but he never came. The following
spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable, again
encouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did not come; and the next
tidings were that he was married. Instead of pushing his fortune in the line
marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, he had purchased
independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of inferior birth.
Sir Walter had resented it. As the head of the house, he felt that he ought
to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so publicly
by the hand; “For they must have been seen together,” he observed, “once at
Tattersall’s, and twice in the lobby of the House of Commons.” His
disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little regarded. Mr Elliot
had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as unsolicitous of being
longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter considered him unworthy of it:
all acquaintance between them had ceased.
This very awkward history of Mr Elliot was still, after an interval of
several years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man for
himself, and still more for being her father’s heir, and whose strong family
pride could see only in him a proper match for Sir Walter Elliot’s eldest
daughter. There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her feelings could
have so willingly acknowledged as an equal. Yet so miserably had he
conducted himself, that though she was at this present time (the summer of
1814) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could not admit him to be
worth thinking of again. The disgrace of his first marriage might, perhaps,
as there was no reason to suppose it perpetuated by offspring, have been got
over, had he not done worse; but he had, as by the accustomary intervention
of kind friends, they had been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of
them all, most slightingly and contemptuously of the very blood he
belonged to, and the honours which were hereafter to be his own. This
could not be pardoned.

Such were Elizabeth Elliot’s sentiments and sensations; such the cares to
alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness and the elegance, the prosperity
and the nothingness of her scene of life; such the feelings to give interest to
a long, uneventful residence in one country circle, to fill the vacancies
which there were no habits of utility abroad, no talents or accomplishments
for home, to occupy.
But now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be
added to these. Her father was growing distressed for money. She knew,
that when he now took up the Baronetage, it was to drive the heavy bills of
his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr Shepherd, his agent, from
his thoughts. The Kellynch property was good, but not equal to Sir Walter’s
apprehension of the state required in its possessor. While Lady Elliot lived,
there had been method, moderation, and economy, which had just kept him
within his income; but with her had died all such right-mindedness, and
from that period he had been constantly exceeding it. It had not been
possible for him to spend less; he had done nothing but what Sir Walter
Elliot was imperiously called on to do; but blameless as he was, he was not
only growing dreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often, that it
became vain to attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his
daughter. He had given her some hints of it the last spring in town; he had
gone so far even as to say, “Can we retrench? Does it occur to you that there
is any one article in which we can retrench?” and Elizabeth, to do her
justice, had, in the first ardour of female alarm, set seriously to think what
could be done, and had finally proposed these two branches of economy, to
cut off some unnecessary charities, and to refrain from new furnishing the
drawing-room; to which expedients she afterwards added the happy thought
of their taking no present down to Anne, as had been the usual yearly
custom. But these measures, however good in themselves, were insufficient
for the real extent of the evil, the whole of which Sir Walter found himself
obliged to confess to her soon afterwards. Elizabeth had nothing to propose
of deeper efficacy. She felt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her
father; and they were neither of them able to devise any means of lessening
their expenses without compromising their dignity, or relinquishing their
comforts in a way not to be borne.
There was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose of;
but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no difference. He
had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the power, but he would

never condescend to sell. No; he would never disgrace his name so far. The
Kellynch estate should be transmitted whole and entire, as he had received
it.
Their two confidential friends, Mr Shepherd, who lived in the
neighbouring market town, and Lady Russell, were called on to advise
them; and both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should
be struck out by one or the other to remove their embarrassments and
reduce their expenditure, without involving the loss of any indulgence of
taste or pride.

CHAPTER II.

Mr Shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold
or his views on Sir Walter, would rather have the disagreeable prompted by
anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and only
begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent
judgement of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he fully
expected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see
finally adopted.
Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it
much serious consideration. She was a woman rather of sound than of quick
abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this instance were
great, from the opposition of two leading principles. She was of strict
integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour; but she was as desirous of
saving Sir Walter’s feelings, as solicitous for the credit of the family, as
aristocratic in her ideas of what was due to them, as anybody of sense and
honesty could well be. She was a benevolent, charitable, good woman, and
capable of strong attachments, most correct in her conduct, strict in her
notions of decorum, and with manners that were held a standard of good-
breeding. She had a cultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational
and consistent—but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a
value for rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of
those who possessed them. Herself the widow of only a knight, she gave the
dignity of a baronet all its due; and Sir Walter, independent of his claims as
an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an obliging landlord, the
husband of her very dear friend, the father of Anne and her sisters, was, as
being Sir Walter, in her apprehension, entitled to a great deal of compassion
and consideration under his present difficulties.
They must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt. But she was very
anxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and Elizabeth.
She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations, and she did

what nobody else thought of doing: she consulted Anne, who never seemed
considered by the others as having any interest in the question. She
consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in marking out the scheme
of retrenchment which was at last submitted to Sir Walter. Every
emendation of Anne’s had been on the side of honesty against importance.
She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete reformation, a
quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of indifference for everything
but justice and equity.
“If we can persuade your father to all this,” said Lady Russell, looking
over her paper, “much may be done. If he will adopt these regulations, in
seven years he will be clear; and I hope we may be able to convince him
and Elizabeth, that Kellynch Hall has a respectability in itself which cannot
be affected by these reductions; and that the true dignity of Sir Walter Elliot
will be very far from lessened in the eyes of sensible people, by acting like
a man of principle. What will he be doing, in fact, but what very many of
our first families have done, or ought to do? There will be nothing singular
in his case; and it is singularity which often makes the worst part of our
suffering, as it always does of our conduct. I have great hope of prevailing.
We must be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has contracted
debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the feelings of the
gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father, there is still more due
to the character of an honest man.”
This was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be
proceeding, his friends to be urging him. She considered it as an act of
indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all the
expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure, and
saw no dignity in anything short of it. She wanted it to be prescribed, and
felt as a duty. She rated Lady Russell’s influence highly; and as to the
severe degree of self-denial which her own conscience prompted, she
believed there might be little more difficulty in persuading them to a
complete, than to half a reformation. Her knowledge of her father and
Elizabeth inclined her to think that the sacrifice of one pair of horses would
be hardly less painful than of both, and so on, through the whole list of
Lady Russell’s too gentle reductions.
How Anne’s more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little
consequence. Lady Russell’s had no success at all: could not be put up with,

were not to be borne. “What! every comfort of life knocked off! Journeys,
London, servants, horses, table—contractions and restrictions every where!
To live no longer with the decencies even of a private gentleman! No, he
would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once, than remain in it on such
disgraceful terms.”
“Quit Kellynch Hall.” The hint was immediately taken up by Mr
Shepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter’s
retrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done
without a change of abode. “Since the idea had been started in the very
quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple,” he said, “in confessing
his judgement to be entirely on that side. It did not appear to him that Sir
Walter could materially alter his style of living in a house which had such a
character of hospitality and ancient dignity to support. In any other place Sir
Walter might judge for himself; and would be looked up to, as regulating
the modes of life in whatever way he might choose to model his
household.”
Sir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very few days more of
doubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was
settled, and the first outline of this important change made out.
There had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in the
country. All Anne’s wishes had been for the latter. A small house in their
own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell’s society,
still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes seeing the lawns
and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her ambition. But the usual fate
of Anne attended her, in having something very opposite from her
inclination fixed on. She disliked Bath, and did not think it agreed with her;
and Bath was to be her home.
Sir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr Shepherd felt that
he could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to dissuade
him from it, and make Bath preferred. It was a much safer place for a
gentleman in his predicament: he might there be important at comparatively
little expense. Two material advantages of Bath over London had of course
been given all their weight: its more convenient distance from Kellynch,
only fifty miles, and Lady Russell’s spending some part of every winter
there; and to the very great satisfaction of Lady Russell, whose first views
on the projected change had been for Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were

induced to believe that they should lose neither consequence nor enjoyment
by settling there.
Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne’s known wishes. It
would be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in his
own neighbourhood. Anne herself would have found the mortifications of it
more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter’s feelings they must have been
dreadful. And with regard to Anne’s dislike of Bath, she considered it as a
prejudice and mistake arising, first, from the circumstance of her having
been three years at school there, after her mother’s death; and secondly,
from her happening to be not in perfectly good spirits the only winter which
she had afterwards spent there with herself.
Lady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must
suit them all; and as to her young friend’s health, by passing all the warm
months with her at Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided; and it
was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits good. Anne had
been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits were not high. A larger
society would improve them. She wanted her to be more known.
The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for
Sir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very material
part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the beginning. He
was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the hands of others; a trial of
fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir Walter’s have found too much.
Kellynch Hall was to be let. This, however, was a profound secret, not to be
breathed beyond their own circle.
Sir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to
design letting his house. Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word
“advertise,” but never dared approach it again. Sir Walter spurned the idea
of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint being dropped
of his having such an intention; and it was only on the supposition of his
being spontaneously solicited by some most unexceptionable applicant, on
his own terms, and as a great favour, that he would let it at all.
How quick come the reasons for approving what we like! Lady Russell
had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir Walter
and his family were to remove from the country. Elizabeth had been lately
forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted. It was with the
daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an unprosperous

marriage, to her father’s house, with the additional burden of two children.
She was a clever young woman, who understood the art of pleasing—the art
of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall; and who had made herself so
acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been already staying there more than
once, in spite of all that Lady Russell, who thought it a friendship quite out
of place, could hint of caution and reserve.
Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and
seemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because
Elizabeth deserved it. She had never received from her more than outward
attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had never
succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against previous
inclination. She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying to get Anne
included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the injustice and all the
discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut her out, and on many lesser
occasions had endeavoured to give Elizabeth the advantage of her own
better judgement and experience; but always in vain: Elizabeth would go
her own way; and never had she pursued it in more decided opposition to
Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs Clay; turning from the society of
so deserving a sister, to bestow her affection and confidence on one who
ought to have been nothing to her but the object of distant civility.
From situation, Mrs Clay was, in Lady Russell’s estimate, a very
unequal, and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion;
and a removal that would leave Mrs Clay behind, and bring a choice of
more suitable intimates within Miss Elliot’s reach, was therefore an object
of first-rate importance.

CHAPTER III.

“I must take leave to observe, Sir Walter,” said Mr Shepherd one morning
at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the newspaper, “that the present juncture
is much in our favour. This peace will be turning all our rich naval officers
ashore. They will be all wanting a home. Could not be a better time, Sir
Walter, for having a choice of tenants, very responsible tenants. Many a
noble fortune has been made during the war. If a rich admiral were to come
in our way, Sir Walter—”
“He would be a very lucky man, Shepherd,” replied Sir Walter; “that’s all
I have to remark. A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him; rather the
greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many before; hey,
Shepherd?”
Mr Shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit, and then added—
“I presume to observe, Sir Walter, that, in the way of business, gentlemen
of the navy are well to deal with. I have had a little knowledge of their
methods of doing business; and I am free to confess that they have very
liberal notions, and are as likely to make desirable tenants as any set of
people one should meet with. Therefore, Sir Walter, what I would take leave
to suggest is, that if in consequence of any rumours getting abroad of your
intention; which must be contemplated as a possible thing, because we
know how difficult it is to keep the actions and designs of one part of the
world from the notice and curiosity of the other; consequence has its tax; I,
John Shepherd, might conceal any family-matters that I chose, for nobody
would think it worth their while to observe me; but Sir Walter Elliot has
eyes upon him which it may be very difficult to elude; and therefore, thus
much I venture upon, that it will not greatly surprise me if, with all our
caution, some rumour of the truth should get abroad; in the supposition of
which, as I was going to observe, since applications will unquestionably
follow, I should think any from our wealthy naval commanders particularly

worth attending to; and beg leave to add, that two hours will bring me over
at any time, to save you the trouble of replying.”
Sir Walter only nodded. But soon afterwards, rising and pacing the room,
he observed sarcastically—
“There are few among the gentlemen of the navy, I imagine, who would
not be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description.”
“They would look around them, no doubt, and bless their good fortune,”
said Mrs Clay, for Mrs Clay was present: her father had driven her over,
nothing being of so much use to Mrs Clay’s health as a drive to Kellynch:
“but I quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor might be a very
desirable tenant. I have known a good deal of the profession; and besides
their liberality, they are so neat and careful in all their ways! These valuable
pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if you chose to leave them, would be perfectly
safe. Everything in and about the house would be taken such excellent care
of! The gardens and shrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as
they are now. You need not be afraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower
gardens being neglected.”
“As to all that,” rejoined Sir Walter coolly, “supposing I were induced to
let my house, I have by no means made up my mind as to the privileges to
be annexed to it. I am not particularly disposed to favour a tenant. The park
would be open to him of course, and few navy officers, or men of any other
description, can have had such a range; but what restrictions I might impose
on the use of the pleasure-grounds, is another thing. I am not fond of the
idea of my shrubberies being always approachable; and I should
recommend Miss Elliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower
garden. I am very little disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any
extraordinary favour, I assure you, be he sailor or soldier.”
After a short pause, Mr Shepherd presumed to say—
“In all these cases, there are established usages which make everything
plain and easy between landlord and tenant. Your interest, Sir Walter, is in
pretty safe hands. Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant has more
than his just rights. I venture to hint, that Sir Walter Elliot cannot be half so
jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be for him.”
Here Anne spoke—

“The navy, I think, who have done so much for us, have at least an equal
claim with any other set of men, for all the comforts and all the privileges
which any home can give. Sailors work hard enough for their comforts, we
must all allow.”
“Very true, very true. What Miss Anne says, is very true,” was Mr
Shepherd’s rejoinder, and “Oh! certainly,” was his daughter’s; but Sir
Walter’s remark was, soon afterwards—
“The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to see any friend of
mine belonging to it.”
“Indeed!” was the reply, and with a look of surprise.
“Yes; it is in two points offensive to me; I have two strong grounds of
objection to it. First, as being the means of bringing persons of obscure
birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which their fathers
and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it cuts up a man’s youth
and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old sooner than any other man. I
have observed it all my life. A man is in greater danger in the navy of being
insulted by the rise of one whose father, his father might have disdained to
speak to, and of becoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in
any other line. One day last spring, in town, I was in company with two
men, striking instances of what I am talking of; Lord St Ives, whose father
we all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was to
give place to Lord St Ives, and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most
deplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of
mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles, nine
grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top. ‘In the name of
heaven, who is that old fellow?’ said I to a friend of mine who was standing
near, (Sir Basil Morley). ‘Old fellow!’ cried Sir Basil, ‘it is Admiral
Baldwin. What do you take his age to be?’ ‘Sixty,’ said I, ‘or perhaps sixty-
two.’ ‘Forty,’ replied Sir Basil, ‘forty, and no more.’ Picture to yourselves
my amazement; I shall not easily forget Admiral Baldwin. I never saw quite
so wretched an example of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I
know it is the same with them all: they are all knocked about, and exposed
to every climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen. It is a
pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach Admiral
Baldwin’s age.”

“Nay, Sir Walter,” cried Mrs Clay, “this is being severe indeed. Have a
little mercy on the poor men. We are not all born to be handsome. The sea is
no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; I have observed it; they
soon lose the look of youth. But then, is not it the same with many other
professions, perhaps most other? Soldiers, in active service, are not at all
better off: and even in the quieter professions, there is a toil and a labour of
the mind, if not of the body, which seldom leaves a man’s looks to the
natural effect of time. The lawyer plods, quite care-worn; the physician is
up at all hours, and travelling in all weather; and even the clergyman—” she
stopt a moment to consider what might do for the clergyman;—“and even
the clergyman, you know is obliged to go into infected rooms, and expose
his health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere. In fact, as I
have long been convinced, though every profession is necessary and
honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who are not obliged to
follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the country, choosing their
own hours, following their own pursuits, and living on their own property,
without the torment of trying for more; it is only their lot, I say, to hold the
blessings of health and a good appearance to the utmost: I know no other
set of men but what lose something of their personableness when they cease
to be quite young.”
It seemed as if Mr Shepherd, in this anxiety to bespeak Sir Walter’s good
will towards a naval officer as tenant, had been gifted with foresight; for the
very first application for the house was from an Admiral Croft, with whom
he shortly afterwards fell into company in attending the quarter sessions at
Taunton; and indeed, he had received a hint of the Admiral from a London
correspondent. By the report which he hastened over to Kellynch to make,
Admiral Croft was a native of Somersetshire, who having acquired a very
handsome fortune, was wishing to settle in his own country, and had come
down to Taunton in order to look at some advertised places in that
immediate neighbourhood, which, however, had not suited him; that
accidentally hearing—(it was just as he had foretold, Mr Shepherd
observed, Sir Walter’s concerns could not be kept a secret,)—accidentally
hearing of the possibility of Kellynch Hall being to let, and understanding
his (Mr Shepherd’s) connection with the owner, he had introduced himself
to him in order to make particular inquiries, and had, in the course of a
pretty long conference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a
man who knew it only by description could feel; and given Mr Shepherd, in

his explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most responsible,
eligible tenant.
“And who is Admiral Croft?” was Sir Walter’s cold suspicious inquiry.
Mr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman’s family, and
mentioned a place; and Anne, after the little pause which followed, added—
“He is a rear admiral of the white. He was in the Trafalgar action, and has
been in the East Indies since; he was stationed there, I believe, several
years.”
“Then I take it for granted,” observed Sir Walter, “that his face is about as
orange as the cuffs and capes of my livery.”
Mr Shepherd hastened to assure him, that Admiral Croft was a very hale,
hearty, well-looking man, a little weather-beaten, to be sure, but not much,
and quite the gentleman in all his notions and behaviour; not likely to make
the smallest difficulty about terms, only wanted a comfortable home, and to
get into it as soon as possible; knew he must pay for his convenience; knew
what rent a ready-furnished house of that consequence might fetch; should
not have been surprised if Sir Walter had asked more; had inquired about
the manor; would be glad of the deputation, certainly, but made no great
point of it; said he sometimes took out a gun, but never killed; quite the
gentleman.
Mr Shepherd was eloquent on the subject; pointing out all the
circumstances of the Admiral’s family, which made him peculiarly desirable
as a tenant. He was a married man, and without children; the very state to
be wished for. A house was never taken good care of, Mr Shepherd
observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture might not be
in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as where there
were many children. A lady, without a family, was the very best preserver of
furniture in the world. He had seen Mrs Croft, too; she was at Taunton with
the admiral, and had been present almost all the time they were talking the
matter over.
“And a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she seemed to be,”
continued he; “asked more questions about the house, and terms, and taxes,
than the Admiral himself, and seemed more conversant with business; and
moreover, Sir Walter, I found she was not quite unconnected in this country,
any more than her husband; that is to say, she is sister to a gentleman who
did live amongst us once; she told me so herself: sister to the gentleman

who lived a few years back at Monkford. Bless me! what was his name? At
this moment I cannot recollect his name, though I have heard it so lately.
Penelope, my dear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who
lived at Monkford: Mrs Croft’s brother?”
But Mrs Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot, that she did not
hear the appeal.
“I have no conception whom you can mean, Shepherd; I remember no
gentleman resident at Monkford since the time of old Governor Trent.”
“Bless me! how very odd! I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose. A
name that I am so very well acquainted with; knew the gentleman so well
by sight; seen him a hundred times; came to consult me once, I remember,
about a trespass of one of his neighbours; farmer’s man breaking into his
orchard; wall torn down; apples stolen; caught in the fact; and afterwards,
contrary to my judgement, submitted to an amicable compromise. Very odd
indeed!”
After waiting another moment—
“You mean Mr Wentworth, I suppose?” said Anne.
Mr Shepherd was all gratitude.
“Wentworth was the very name! Mr Wentworth was the very man. He
had the curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two
or three years. Came there about the year —5, I take it. You remember him,
I am sure.”
“Wentworth? Oh! ay, Mr Wentworth, the curate of Monkford. You misled
me by the term gentleman. I thought you were speaking of some man of
property: Mr Wentworth was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected;
nothing to do with the Strafford family. One wonders how the names of
many of our nobility become so common.”
As Mr Shepherd perceived that this connexion of the Crofts did them no
service with Sir Walter, he mentioned it no more; returning, with all his
zeal, to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their favour; their
age, and number, and fortune; the high idea they had formed of Kellynch
Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of renting it; making it
appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the happiness of being the tenants
of Sir Walter Elliot: an extraordinary taste, certainly, could they have been
supposed in the secret of Sir Walter’s estimate of the dues of a tenant.

It succeeded, however; and though Sir Walter must ever look with an evil
eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them infinitely too
well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked into
allowing Mr Shepherd to proceed in the treaty, and authorising him to wait
on Admiral Croft, who still remained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house
being seen.
Sir Walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the
world to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials, than
Admiral Croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer. So far went his
understanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in the
Admiral’s situation in life, which was just high enough, and not too high. “I
have let my house to Admiral Croft,” would sound extremely well; very
much better than to any mere Mr.——; a Mr. (save, perhaps, some half
dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of explanation. An admiral speaks
his own consequence, and, at the same time, can never make a baronet look
small. In all their dealings and intercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have
the precedence.
Nothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth: but her
inclination was growing so strong for a removal, that she was happy to have
it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand; and not a word to suspend
decision was uttered by her.
Mr Shepherd was completely empowered to act; and no sooner had such
an end been reached, than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to
the whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her flushed
cheeks; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a gentle sigh,
“A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here.”

CHAPTER IV.

He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however
suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his
brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St
Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in
the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half a
year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man, with
a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an extremely
pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum of
attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do,
and she had hardly anybody to love; but the encounter of such lavish
recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted, and when
acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love. It would be difficult to say which
had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest:
she, in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them
accepted.
A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one.
Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually
withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the
negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a
professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He thought it a very
degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered and
pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one.
Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw
herself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement with
a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no
hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain
profession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the
profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to think
of! Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger

without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a state of most
wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence! It must not be, if by any fair
interference of friendship, any representations from one who had almost a
mother’s love, and mother’s rights, it would be prevented.
Captain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession;
but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing. But he was
confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour, he knew that
he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to
everything he wanted. He had always been lucky; he knew he should be so
still. Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and bewitching in the
wit which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne; but Lady
Russell saw it very differently. His sanguine temper, and fearlessness of
mind, operated very differently on her. She saw in it but an aggravation of
the evil. It only added a dangerous character to himself. He was brilliant, he
was headstrong. Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything
approaching to imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connexion in every
light.
Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could
combat. Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible to
withstand her father’s ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word or look
on the part of her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had always loved and
relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion, and such tenderness of
manner, be continually advising her in vain. She was persuaded to believe
the engagement a wrong thing: indiscreet, improper, hardly capable of
success, and not deserving it. But it was not a merely selfish caution, under
which she acted, in putting an end to it. Had she not imagined herself
consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given
him up. The belief of being prudent, and self-denying, principally for his
advantage, was her chief consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final
parting; and every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the
additional pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending,
and of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment. He had left
the country in consequence.
A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance;
but not with a few months ended Anne’s share of suffering from it. Her

attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of
youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect.
More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful
interest had reached its close; and time had softened down much, perhaps
nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too dependent on
time alone; no aid had been given in change of place (except in one visit to
Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty or enlargement of society. No
one had ever come within the Kellynch circle, who could bear a comparison
with Frederick Wentworth, as he stood in her memory. No second
attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her
time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the
fastidiousness of her taste, in the small limits of the society around them.
She had been solicited, when about two-and-twenty, to change her name, by
the young man, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her
younger sister; and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal; for Charles
Musgrove was the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and general
importance were second in that country, only to Sir Walter’s, and of good
character and appearance; and however Lady Russell might have asked yet
for something more, while Anne was nineteen, she would have rejoiced to
see her at twenty-two so respectably removed from the partialities and
injustice of her father’s house, and settled so permanently near herself. But
in this case, Anne had left nothing for advice to do; and though Lady
Russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the past
undone, she began now to have the anxiety which borders on hopelessness
for Anne’s being tempted, by some man of talents and independence, to
enter a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm
affections and domestic habits.
They knew not each other’s opinion, either its constancy or its change, on
the one leading point of Anne’s conduct, for the subject was never alluded
to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently from what she
had been made to think at nineteen. She did not blame Lady Russell, she
did not blame herself for having been guided by her; but she felt that were
any young person, in similar circumstances, to apply to her for counsel,
they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such
uncertain future good. She was persuaded that under every disadvantage of
disapprobation at home, and every anxiety attending his profession, all their
probable fears, delays, and disappointments, she should yet have been a

happier woman in maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the
sacrifice of it; and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even
more than the usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs,
without reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it happened,
would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be reasonably calculated
on. All his sanguine expectations, all his confidence had been justified. His
genius and ardour had seemed to foresee and to command his prosperous
path. He had, very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ: and all
that he had told her would follow, had taken place. He had distinguished
himself, and early gained the other step in rank, and must now, by
successive captures, have made a handsome fortune. She had only navy lists
and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich;
and, in favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married.
How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were
her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence
in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion
and distrust Providence! She had been forced into prudence in her youth,
she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural
beginning.
With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not
hear that Captain Wentworth’s sister was likely to live at Kellynch without a
revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary
to dispel the agitation of the idea. She often told herself it was folly, before
she could harden her nerves sufficiently to feel the continual discussion of
the Crofts and their business no evil. She was assisted, however, by that
perfect indifference and apparent unconsciousness, among the only three of
her own friends in the secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any
recollection of it. She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell’s
motives in this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all
the better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion among
them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the event of
Admiral Croft’s really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew over the
conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the past being
known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no syllable, she
believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that among his, the
brother only with whom he had been residing, had received any information
of their short-lived engagement. That brother had been long removed from

the country and being a sensible man, and, moreover, a single man at the
time, she had a fond dependence on no human creature’s having heard of it
from him.
The sister, Mrs Croft, had then been out of England, accompanying her
husband on a foreign station, and her own sister, Mary, had been at school
while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some, and the
delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards.
With these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself and
the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch, and Mary
fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not involve any
particular awkwardness.

CHAPTER V.

On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft’s seeing Kellynch
Hall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady
Russell’s, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it most
natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing them.
This meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided
the whole business at once. Each lady was previously well disposed for an
agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the other; and
with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good humour, such
an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral’s side, as could not but influence
Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into his very best and most
polished behaviour by Mr Shepherd’s assurances of his being known, by
report, to the Admiral, as a model of good breeding.
The house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the Crofts were
approved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and Mr
Shepherd’s clerks were set to work, without there having been a single
preliminary difference to modify of all that “This indenture sheweth.”
Sir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the best-looking
sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say, that if his own man
might have had the arranging of his hair, he should not be ashamed of being
seen with him any where; and the Admiral, with sympathetic cordiality,
observed to his wife as they drove back through the park, “I thought we
should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite of what they told us at
Taunton. The Baronet will never set the Thames on fire, but there seems to
be no harm in him.”—reciprocal compliments, which would have been
esteemed about equal.
The Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as Sir Walter
proposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there was
no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement.

Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any
use, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were going to
secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon, and wanted to
make it possible for her to stay behind till she might convey her to Bath
herself after Christmas; but having engagements of her own which must
take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was unable to give the full
invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading the possible heats of
September in all the white glare of Bath, and grieving to forego all the
influence so sweet and so sad of the autumnal months in the country, did
not think that, everything considered, she wished to remain. It would be
most right, and most wise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go
with the others.
Something occurred, however, to give her a different duty. Mary, often a
little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own complaints, and
always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was the matter, was
indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a day’s health all the
autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it was hardly entreaty, to come
to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her company as long as she should want
her, instead of going to Bath.
“I cannot possibly do without Anne,” was Mary’s reasoning; and
Elizabeth’s reply was, “Then I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody
will want her in Bath.”
To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least better
than being rejected as no good at all; and Anne, glad to be thought of some
use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and certainly not sorry to
have the scene of it in the country, and her own dear country, readily agreed
to stay.
This invitation of Mary’s removed all Lady Russell’s difficulties, and it
was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till Lady
Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be divided
between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge.
So far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by the
wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her, which
was, Mrs Clay’s being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and Elizabeth,
as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in all the business
before her. Lady Russell was extremely sorry that such a measure should

have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved, and feared; and the affront
it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay’s being of so much use, while Anne could
be of none, was a very sore aggravation.
Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the
imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell. With a
great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often wished
less, of her father’s character, she was sensible that results the most serious
to his family from the intimacy were more than possible. She did not
imagine that her father had at present an idea of the kind. Mrs Clay had
freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a clumsy wrist, which he was
continually making severe remarks upon, in her absence; but she was
young, and certainly altogether well-looking, and possessed, in an acute
mind and assiduous pleasing manners, infinitely more dangerous attractions
than any merely personal might have been. Anne was so impressed by the
degree of their danger, that she could not excuse herself from trying to
make it perceptible to her sister. She had little hope of success; but
Elizabeth, who in the event of such a reverse would be so much more to be
pitied than herself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her
for giving no warning.
She spoke, and seemed only to offend. Elizabeth could not conceive how
such an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered for
each party’s perfectly knowing their situation.
“Mrs Clay,” said she, warmly, “never forgets who she is; and as I am
rather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, I can assure
you, that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly nice, and that
she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more strongly than most
people. And as to my father, I really should not have thought that he, who
has kept himself single so long for our sakes, need be suspected now. If Mrs
Clay were a very beautiful woman, I grant you, it might be wrong to have
her so much with me; not that anything in the world, I am sure, would
induce my father to make a degrading match, but he might be rendered
unhappy. But poor Mrs Clay who, with all her merits, can never have been
reckoned tolerably pretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here
in perfect safety. One would imagine you had never heard my father speak
of her personal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times. That tooth
of hers and those freckles. Freckles do not disgust me so very much as they

do him. I have known a face not materially disfigured by a few, but he
abominates them. You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay’s freckles.”
“There is hardly any personal defect,” replied Anne, “which an agreeable
manner might not gradually reconcile one to.”
“I think very differently,” answered Elizabeth, shortly; “an agreeable
manner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones.
However, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this point than
anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you to be advising
me.”
Anne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of
doing good. Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be made
observant by it.
The last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter, Miss
Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good spirits; Sir
Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the afflicted tenantry and
cottagers who might have had a hint to show themselves, and Anne walked
up at the same time, in a sort of desolate tranquillity, to the Lodge, where
she was to spend the first week.
Her friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady Russell felt this
break-up of the family exceedingly. Their respectability was as dear to her
as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by habit. It was
painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still worse to anticipate the
new hands they were to fall into; and to escape the solitariness and the
melancholy of so altered a village, and be out of the way when Admiral and
Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined to make her own absence from
home begin when she must give up Anne. Accordingly their removal was
made together, and Anne was set down at Uppercross Cottage, in the first
stage of Lady Russell’s journey.
Uppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had
been completely in the old English style, containing only two houses
superior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the mansion
of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees, substantial and
unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage, enclosed in its own neat
garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained round its casements; but upon the
marriage of the young ’squire, it had received the improvement of a farm-
house elevated into a cottage, for his residence, and Uppercross Cottage,

with its veranda, French windows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely
to catch the traveller’s eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect
and premises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile farther on.
Here Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Uppercross as
well as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually meeting, so
much in the habit of running in and out of each other’s house at all hours,
that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary alone; but being alone, her
being unwell and out of spirits was almost a matter of course. Though better
endowed than the elder sister, Mary had not Anne’s understanding nor
temper. While well, and happy, and properly attended to, she had great good
humour and excellent spirits; but any indisposition sunk her completely.
She had no resources for solitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the
Elliot self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of
fancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person, she was inferior to both
sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of being “a
fine girl.” She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty little drawing-
room, the once elegant furniture of which had been gradually growing
shabby, under the influence of four summers and two children; and, on
Anne’s appearing, greeted her with—
“So, you are come at last! I began to think I should never see you. I am
so ill I can hardly speak. I have not seen a creature the whole morning!”
“I am sorry to find you unwell,” replied Anne. “You sent me such a good
account of yourself on Thursday!”
“Yes, I made the best of it; I always do: but I was very far from well at
the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in my life as I have been all this
morning: very unfit to be left alone, I am sure. Suppose I were to be seized
of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not able to ring the bell! So, Lady
Russell would not get out. I do not think she has been in this house three
times this summer.”
Anne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband. “Oh! Charles
is out shooting. I have not seen him since seven o’clock. He would go,
though I told him how ill I was. He said he should not stay out long; but he
has never come back, and now it is almost one. I assure you, I have not seen
a soul this whole long morning.”
“You have had your little boys with you?”

“Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable
that they do me more harm than good. Little Charles does not mind a word I
say, and Walter is growing quite as bad.”
“Well, you will soon be better now,” replied Anne, cheerfully. “You know
I always cure you when I come. How are your neighbours at the Great
House?”
“I can give you no account of them. I have not seen one of them to-day,
except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but
without getting off his horse; and though I told him how ill I was, not one of
them have been near me. It did not happen to suit the Miss Musgroves, I
suppose, and they never put themselves out of their way.”
“You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone. It is early.”
“I never want them, I assure you. They talk and laugh a great deal too
much for me. Oh! Anne, I am so very unwell! It was quite unkind of you
not to come on Thursday.”
“My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of
yourself! You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were perfectly
well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you must be aware
that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the last: and besides
what I felt on her account, I have really been so busy, have had so much to
do, that I could not very conveniently have left Kellynch sooner.”
“Dear me! what can you possibly have to do?”
“A great many things, I assure you. More than I can recollect in a
moment; but I can tell you some. I have been making a duplicate of the
catalogue of my father’s books and pictures. I have been several times in
the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him understand,
which of Elizabeth’s plants are for Lady Russell. I have had all my own
little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide, and all my trunks to
repack, from not having understood in time what was intended as to the
waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary, of a more trying nature:
going to almost every house in the parish, as a sort of take-leave. I was told
that they wished it. But all these things took up a great deal of time.”
“Oh! well!” and after a moment’s pause, “but you have never asked me
one word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday.”

“Did you go then? I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you
must have been obliged to give up the party.”
“Oh yes! I went. I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter with
me till this morning. It would have been strange if I had not gone.”
“I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant
party.”
“Nothing remarkable. One always knows beforehand what the dinner
will be, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a
carriage of one’s own. Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so
crowded! They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr
Musgrove always sits forward. So, there was I, crowded into the back seat
with Henrietta and Louisa; and I think it very likely that my illness to-day
may be owing to it.”
A little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on
Anne’s side produced nearly a cure on Mary’s. She could soon sit upright
on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by dinner-time.
Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end of the room,
beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and then she was well
enough to propose a little walk.
“Where shall we go?” said she, when they were ready. “I suppose you
will not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see you?”
“I have not the smallest objection on that account,” replied Anne. “I
should never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so
well as Mrs and the Miss Musgroves.”
“Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible. They ought to
feel what is due to you as my sister. However, we may as well go and sit
with them a little while, and when we have that over, we can enjoy our
walk.”
Anne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent;
but she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that, though
there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither family could
now do without it. To the Great House accordingly they went, to sit the full
half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour, with a small carpet and
shining floor, to which the present daughters of the house were gradually
giving the proper air of confusion by a grand piano-forte and a harp, flower-

stands and little tables placed in every direction. Oh! could the originals of
the portraits against the wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and
the ladies in blue satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious
of such an overthrow of all order and neatness! The portraits themselves
seemed to be staring in astonishment.
The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration, perhaps of
improvement. The father and mother were in the old English style, and the
young people in the new. Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a very good sort of
people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated, and not at all elegant.
Their children had more modern minds and manners. There was a numerous
family; but the only two grown up, excepting Charles, were Henrietta and
Louisa, young ladies of nineteen and twenty, who had brought from school
at Exeter all the usual stock of accomplishments, and were now like
thousands of other young ladies, living to be fashionable, happy, and merry.
Their dress had every advantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits
extremely good, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of
consequence at home, and favourites abroad. Anne always contemplated
them as some of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved
as we all are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for
the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more
elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them
nothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement
together, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known so
little herself with either of her sisters.
They were received with great cordiality. Nothing seemed amiss on the
side of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well
knew, the least to blame. The half hour was chatted away pleasantly
enough; and she was not at all surprised, at the end of it, to have their
walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary’s particular
invitation.

CHAPTER VI.

Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal
from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three miles,
will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and idea. She had
never been staying there before, without being struck by it, or without
wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in seeing how
unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at Kellynch Hall
were treated as of such general publicity and pervading interest; yet, with
all this experience, she believed she must now submit to feel that another
lesson, in the art of knowing our own nothingness beyond our own circle,
was become necessary for her; for certainly, coming as she did, with a heart
full of the subject which had been completely occupying both houses in
Kellynch for many weeks, she had expected rather more curiosity and
sympathy than she found in the separate but very similar remark of Mr and
Mrs Musgrove: “So, Miss Anne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and
what part of Bath do you think they will settle in?” and this, without much
waiting for an answer; or in the young ladies’ addition of, “I hope we shall
be in Bath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a
good situation: none of your Queen Squares for us!” or in the anxious
supplement from Mary, of—“Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off,
when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!”
She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think
with heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one such
truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell.
The Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their
own horses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were
fully occupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping,
neighbours, dress, dancing, and music. She acknowledged it to be very
fitting, that every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters
of discourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the

one she was now transplanted into. With the prospect of spending at least
two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to clothe her
imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of Uppercross as
possible.
She had no dread of these two months. Mary was not so repulsive and
unsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers; neither
was there anything among the other component parts of the cottage inimical
to comfort. She was always on friendly terms with her brother-in-law; and
in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and respected her a great deal
more than their mother, she had an object of interest, amusement, and
wholesome exertion.
Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was
undoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation, or
grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a dangerous
contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe, with Lady
Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved him; and that
a woman of real understanding might have given more consequence to his
character, and more usefulness, rationality, and elegance to his habits and
pursuits. As it was, he did nothing with much zeal, but sport; and his time
was otherwise trifled away, without benefit from books or anything else. He
had very good spirits, which never seemed much affected by his wife’s
occasional lowness, bore with her unreasonableness sometimes to Anne’s
admiration, and upon the whole, though there was very often a little
disagreement (in which she had sometimes more share than she wished,
being appealed to by both parties), they might pass for a happy couple.
They were always perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong
inclination for a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most
topics, he had the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that
such a present was not made, he always contended for his father’s having
many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked.
As to the management of their children, his theory was much better than
his wife’s, and his practice not so bad. “I could manage them very well, if it
were not for Mary’s interference,” was what Anne often heard him say, and
had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in turn to Mary’s reproach of
“Charles spoils the children so that I cannot get them into any order,” she
never had the smallest temptation to say, “Very true.”

One of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her
being treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too much
in the secret of the complaints of each house. Known to have some
influence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least receiving
hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable. “I wish you could persuade
Mary not to be always fancying herself ill,” was Charles’s language; and, in
an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary: “I do believe if Charles were to see me
dying, he would not think there was anything the matter with me. I am sure,
Anne, if you would, you might persuade him that I really am very ill—a
great deal worse than I ever own.”
Mary’s declaration was, “I hate sending the children to the Great House,
though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she humours
and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much trash and
sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross for the rest of
the day.” And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity of being alone with
Anne, to say, “Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing Mrs Charles had a
little of your method with those children. They are quite different creatures
with you! But to be sure, in general they are so spoilt! It is a pity you cannot
put your sister in the way of managing them. They are as fine healthy
children as ever were seen, poor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs
Charles knows no more how they should be treated—! Bless me! how
troublesome they are sometimes. I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my
wishing to see them at our house so often as I otherwise should. I believe
Mrs Charles is not quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you
know it is very bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be
checking every moment; “don’t do this,” and “don’t do that;” or that one
can only keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them.”
She had this communication, moreover, from Mary. “Mrs Musgrove
thinks all her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in
question; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper house-maid
and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are gadding about the
village, all day long. I meet them wherever I go; and I declare, I never go
twice into my nursery without seeing something of them. If Jemima were
not the trustiest, steadiest creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil
her; for she tells me, they are always tempting her to take a walk with
them.” And on Mrs Musgrove’s side, it was, “I make a rule of never
interfering in any of my daughter-in-law’s concerns, for I know it would not

do; but I shall tell you, Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to
rights, that I have no very good opinion of Mrs Charles’s nursery-maid: I
hear strange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own
knowledge, I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is
enough to ruin any servants she comes near. Mrs Charles quite swears by
her, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the watch;
because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of mentioning
it.”
Again, it was Mary’s complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to
give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great
House with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was to
be considered so much at home as to lose her place. And one day when
Anne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after talking of
rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, “I have no scruple of
observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about their place,
because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you are about it; but I
wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would be a great deal better if
she were not so very tenacious, especially if she would not be always
putting herself forward to take place of mamma. Nobody doubts her right to
have precedence of mamma, but it would be more becoming in her not to be
always insisting on it. It is not that mamma cares about it the least in the
world, but I know it is taken notice of by many persons.”
How was Anne to set all these matters to rights? She could do little more
than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to the other;
give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between such near
neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant for her
sister’s benefit.
In all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well. Her own
spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed three
miles from Kellynch; Mary’s ailments lessened by having a constant
companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family, since there
was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment in the cottage,
to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage. It was certainly carried
nearly as far as possible, for they met every morning, and hardly ever spent
an evening asunder; but she believed they should not have done so well

without the sight of Mr and Mrs Musgrove’s respectable forms in the usual
places, or without the talking, laughing, and singing of their daughters.
She played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but
having no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit by
and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought of, only
out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well aware. She knew that
when she played she was giving pleasure only to herself; but this was no
new sensation. Excepting one short period of her life, she had never, since
the age of fourteen, never since the loss of her dear mother, known the
happiness of being listened to, or encouraged by any just appreciation or
real taste. In music she had been always used to feel alone in the world; and
Mr and Mrs Musgrove’s fond partiality for their own daughters’
performance, and total indifference to any other person’s, gave her much
more pleasure for their sakes, than mortification for her own.
The party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other
company. The neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were
visited by everybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more
visitors by invitation and by chance, than any other family. They were more
completely popular.
The girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally, in
an unpremeditated little ball. There was a family of cousins within a walk of
Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on the
Musgroves for all their pleasures: they would come at any time, and help
play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much preferring the
office of musician to a more active post, played country dances to them by
the hour together; a kindness which always recommended her musical
powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove more than anything else, and
often drew this compliment;—“Well done, Miss Anne! very well done
indeed! Lord bless me! how those little fingers of yours fly about!”
So passed the first three weeks. Michaelmas came; and now Anne’s heart
must be in Kellynch again. A beloved home made over to others; all the
precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own other
eyes and other limbs! She could not think of much else on the 29th of
September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening from Mary,
who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month, exclaimed,

“Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to Kellynch? I am
glad I did not think of it before. How low it makes me!”
The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be
visited. Mary deplored the necessity for herself. “Nobody knew how much
she should suffer. She should put it off as long as she could;” but was not
easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on an early day, and
was in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary agitation, when she
came back. Anne had very sincerely rejoiced in there being no means of her
going. She wished, however, to see the Crofts, and was glad to be within
when the visit was returned. They came: the master of the house was not at
home, but the two sisters were together; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft
fell to the share of Anne, while the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself
very agreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well
able to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to catch it in
the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression.
Mrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness, and
vigour of form, which gave importance to her person. She had bright dark
eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though her reddened and
weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her having been almost as
much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have lived some years longer
in the world than her real eight-and-thirty. Her manners were open, easy,
and decided, like one who had no distrust of herself, and no doubts of what
to do; without any approach to coarseness, however, or any want of good
humour. Anne gave her credit, indeed, for feelings of great consideration
towards herself, in all that related to Kellynch, and it pleased her:
especially, as she had satisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the
instant even of introduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any
knowledge or suspicion on Mrs Croft’s side, to give a bias of any sort. She
was quite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage,
till for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft’s suddenly saying,—
“It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the pleasure
of being acquainted with, when he was in this country.”
Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion
she certainly had not.
“Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?” added Mrs Croft.

She could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs
Croft’s next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke,
that she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She
immediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be thinking
and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame at her own
forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their former neighbour’s
present state with proper interest.
The rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she heard the
Admiral say to Mary—
“We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft’s here soon; I dare say you
know him by name.”
He was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to him
like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too much
engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets, &c., to
have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had begun, Anne
was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that the same brother must
still be in question. She could not, however, reach such a degree of
certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether anything had been said on the
subject at the other house, where the Crofts had previously been calling.
The folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at the
Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to be made on
foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the youngest Miss
Musgrove walked in. That she was coming to apologize, and that they
should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the first black idea;
and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa made all right by
saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more room for the harp, which
was bringing in the carriage.
“And I will tell you our reason,” she added, “and all about it. I am come
on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this evening,
especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard! And we
agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse her more
than the piano-forte. I will tell you why she is out of spirits. When the
Crofts called this morning, (they called here afterwards, did not they?), they
happened to say, that her brother, Captain Wentworth, is just returned to
England, or paid off, or something, and is coming to see them almost
directly; and most unluckily it came into mamma’s head, when they were

gone, that Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor
Richard’s captain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great
while before he died, poor fellow! And upon looking over his letters and
things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be the very
man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard! So we must be as
merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon such gloomy things.”
The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were, that
the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son;
and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year; that
he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and unmanageable on shore;
that he had been very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite
as much as he deserved; seldom heard of, and scarcely at all regretted, when
the intelligence of his death abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two
years before.
He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him,
by calling him “poor Richard,” been nothing better than a thick-headed,
unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done anything to
entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead.
He had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those
removals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such
midshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on board
Captain Frederick Wentworth’s frigate, the Laconia; and from the Laconia
he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only two letters which
his father and mother had ever received from him during the whole of his
absence; that is to say, the only two disinterested letters; all the rest had
been mere applications for money.
In each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little were
they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and incurious
were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made scarcely any
impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have been suddenly
struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of Wentworth, as
connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary bursts of mind
which do sometimes occur.
She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the re-
perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son gone for ever,
and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had affected her spirits

exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for him than she had known
on first hearing of his death. Mr Musgrove was, in a lesser degree, affected
likewise; and when they reached the cottage, they were evidently in want,
first, of being listened to anew on this subject, and afterwards, of all the
relief which cheerful companions could give them.
To hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name
so often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it might, that
it probably would, turn out to be the very same Captain Wentworth whom
they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their coming back from
Clifton—a very fine young man—but they could not say whether it was
seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to Anne’s nerves. She
found, however, that it was one to which she must inure herself. Since he
actually was expected in the country, she must teach herself to be insensible
on such points. And not only did it appear that he was expected, and
speedily, but the Musgroves, in their warm gratitude for the kindness he had
shewn poor Dick, and very high respect for his character, stamped as it was
by poor Dick’s having been six months under his care, and mentioning him
in strong, though not perfectly well-spelt praise, as “a fine dashing felow,
only two perticular about the schoolmaster,” were bent on introducing
themselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of his
arrival.
The resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening.

CHAPTER VII.

A very few days more, and Captain Wentworth was known to be at
Kellynch, and Mr Musgrove had called on him, and come back warm in his
praise, and he was engaged with the Crofts to dine at Uppercross, by the
end of another week. It had been a great disappointment to Mr Musgrove to
find that no earlier day could be fixed, so impatient was he to shew his
gratitude, by seeing Captain Wentworth under his own roof, and welcoming
him to all that was strongest and best in his cellars. But a week must pass;
only a week, in Anne’s reckoning, and then, she supposed, they must meet;
and soon she began to wish that she could feel secure even for a week.
Captain Wentworth made a very early return to Mr Musgrove’s civility,
and she was all but calling there in the same half hour. She and Mary were
actually setting forward for the Great House, where, as she afterwards
learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when they were stopped by the
eldest boy’s being at that moment brought home in consequence of a bad
fall. The child’s situation put the visit entirely aside; but she could not hear
of her escape with indifference, even in the midst of the serious anxiety
which they afterwards felt on his account.
His collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such injury received in
the back, as roused the most alarming ideas. It was an afternoon of distress,
and Anne had every thing to do at once; the apothecary to send for, the
father to have pursued and informed, the mother to support and keep from
hysterics, the servants to control, the youngest child to banish, and the poor
suffering one to attend and soothe; besides sending, as soon as she
recollected it, proper notice to the other house, which brought her an
accession rather of frightened, enquiring companions, than of very useful
assistants.
Her brother’s return was the first comfort; he could take best care of his
wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary. Till he came
and had examined the child, their apprehensions were the worse for being

vague; they suspected great injury, but knew not where; but now the collar-
bone was soon replaced, and though Mr Robinson felt and felt, and rubbed,
and looked grave, and spoke low words both to the father and the aunt, still
they were all to hope the best, and to be able to part and eat their dinner in
tolerable ease of mind; and then it was, just before they parted, that the two
young aunts were able so far to digress from their nephew’s state, as to give
the information of Captain Wentworth’s visit; staying five minutes behind
their father and mother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted
they were with him, how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable
they thought him than any individual among their male acquaintance, who
had been at all a favourite before. How glad they had been to hear papa
invite him to stay dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite out of his
power, and how glad again when he had promised in reply to papa and
mamma’s farther pressing invitations to come and dine with them on the
morrow—actually on the morrow; and he had promised it in so pleasant a
manner, as if he felt all the motive of their attention just as he ought. And in
short, he had looked and said everything with such exquisite grace, that
they could assure them all, their heads were both turned by him; and off
they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and apparently more full of Captain
Wentworth than of little Charles.
The same story and the same raptures were repeated, when the two girls
came with their father, through the gloom of the evening, to make enquiries;
and Mr Musgrove, no longer under the first uneasiness about his heir, could
add his confirmation and praise, and hope there would be now no occasion
for putting Captain Wentworth off, and only be sorry to think that the
cottage party, probably, would not like to leave the little boy, to give him
the meeting. “Oh no; as to leaving the little boy,” both father and mother
were in much too strong and recent alarm to bear the thought; and Anne, in
the joy of the escape, could not help adding her warm protestations to
theirs.
Charles Musgrove, indeed, afterwards, shewed more of inclination; “the
child was going on so well, and he wished so much to be introduced to
Captain Wentworth, that, perhaps, he might join them in the evening; he
would not dine from home, but he might walk in for half an hour.” But in
this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with “Oh! no, indeed, Charles, I
cannot bear to have you go away. Only think if anything should happen?”

The child had a good night, and was going on well the next day. It must
be a work of time to ascertain that no injury had been done to the spine; but
Mr Robinson found nothing to increase alarm, and Charles Musgrove
began, consequently, to feel no necessity for longer confinement. The child
was to be kept in bed and amused as quietly as possible; but what was there
for a father to do? This was quite a female case, and it would be highly
absurd in him, who could be of no use at home, to shut himself up. His
father very much wished him to meet Captain Wentworth, and there being
no sufficient reason against it, he ought to go; and it ended in his making a
bold, public declaration, when he came in from shooting, of his meaning to
dress directly, and dine at the other house.
“Nothing can be going on better than the child,” said he; “so I told my
father, just now, that I would come, and he thought me quite right. Your
sister being with you, my love, I have no scruple at all. You would not like
to leave him yourself, but you see I can be of no use. Anne will send for me
if anything is the matter.”
Husbands and wives generally understand when opposition will be vain.
Mary knew, from Charles’s manner of speaking, that he was quite
determined on going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him. She said
nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as there was only
Anne to hear—
“So you and I are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this poor sick
child; and not a creature coming near us all the evening! I knew how it
would be. This is always my luck. If there is anything disagreeable going on
men are always sure to get out of it, and Charles is as bad as any of them.
Very unfeeling! I must say it is very unfeeling of him to be running away
from his poor little boy. Talks of his being going on so well! How does he
know that he is going on well, or that there may not be a sudden change half
an hour hence? I did not think Charles would have been so unfeeling. So
here he is to go away and enjoy himself, and because I am the poor mother,
I am not to be allowed to stir; and yet, I am sure, I am more unfit than
anybody else to be about the child. My being the mother is the very reason
why my feelings should not be tried. I am not at all equal to it. You saw
how hysterical I was yesterday.”
“But that was only the effect of the suddenness of your alarm—of the
shock. You will not be hysterical again. I dare say we shall have nothing to

distress us. I perfectly understand Mr Robinson’s directions, and have no
fears; and indeed, Mary, I cannot wonder at your husband. Nursing does not
belong to a man; it is not his province. A sick child is always the mother’s
property: her own feelings generally make it so.”
“I hope I am as fond of my child as any mother, but I do not know that I
am of any more use in the sick-room than Charles, for I cannot be always
scolding and teazing the poor child when it is ill; and you saw, this
morning, that if I told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin kicking about.
I have not nerves for the sort of thing.”
“But, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending the whole
evening away from the poor boy?”
“Yes; you see his papa can, and why should not I? Jemima is so careful;
and she could send us word every hour how he was. I really think Charles
might as well have told his father we would all come. I am not more
alarmed about little Charles now than he is. I was dreadfully alarmed
yesterday, but the case is very different to-day.”
“Well, if you do not think it too late to give notice for yourself, suppose
you were to go, as well as your husband. Leave little Charles to my care.
Mr and Mrs Musgrove cannot think it wrong while I remain with him.”
“Are you serious?” cried Mary, her eyes brightening. “Dear me! that’s a
very good thought, very good, indeed. To be sure, I may just as well go as
not, for I am of no use at home—am I? and it only harasses me. You, who
have not a mother’s feelings, are a great deal the properest person. You can
make little Charles do anything; he always minds you at a word. It will be a
great deal better than leaving him only with Jemima. Oh! I shall certainly
go; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as much as Charles, for they want me
excessively to be acquainted with Captain Wentworth, and I know you do
not mind being left alone. An excellent thought of yours, indeed, Anne. I
will go and tell Charles, and get ready directly. You can send for us, you
know, at a moment’s notice, if anything is the matter; but I dare say there
will be nothing to alarm you. I should not go, you may be sure, if I did not
feel quite at ease about my dear child.”
The next moment she was tapping at her husband’s dressing-room door,
and as Anne followed her up stairs, she was in time for the whole
conversation, which began with Mary’s saying, in a tone of great exultation
—

“I mean to go with you, Charles, for I am of no more use at home than
you are. If I were to shut myself up for ever with the child, I should not be
able to persuade him to do anything he did not like. Anne will stay; Anne
undertakes to stay at home and take care of him. It is Anne’s own proposal,
and so I shall go with you, which will be a great deal better, for I have not
dined at the other house since Tuesday.”
“This is very kind of Anne,” was her husband’s answer, “and I should be
very glad to have you go; but it seems rather hard that she should be left at
home by herself, to nurse our sick child.”
Anne was now at hand to take up her own cause, and the sincerity of her
manner being soon sufficient to convince him, where conviction was at
least very agreeable, he had no farther scruples as to her being left to dine
alone, though he still wanted her to join them in the evening, when the child
might be at rest for the night, and kindly urged her to let him come and
fetch her, but she was quite unpersuadable; and this being the case, she had
ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off together in high spirits. They
were gone, she hoped, to be happy, however oddly constructed such
happiness might seem; as for herself, she was left with as many sensations
of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever likely to be hers. She knew herself to be
of the first utility to the child; and what was it to her if Frederick Wentworth
were only half a mile distant, making himself agreeable to others?
She would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting. Perhaps
indifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances. He must
be either indifferent or unwilling. Had he wished ever to see her again, he
need not have waited till this time; he would have done what she could not
but believe that in his place she should have done long ago, when events
had been early giving him the independence which alone had been wanting.
Her brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance,
and their visit in general. There had been music, singing, talking, laughing,
all that was most agreeable; charming manners in Captain Wentworth, no
shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other perfectly, and he
was coming the very next morning to shoot with Charles. He was to come
to breakfast, but not at the Cottage, though that had been proposed at first;
but then he had been pressed to come to the Great House instead, and he
seemed afraid of being in Mrs Charles Musgrove’s way, on account of the

child, and therefore, somehow, they hardly knew how, it ended in Charles’s
being to meet him to breakfast at his father’s.
Anne understood it. He wished to avoid seeing her. He had inquired after
her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight acquaintance, seeming
to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged, actuated, perhaps, by the
same view of escaping introduction when they were to meet.
The morning hours of the Cottage were always later than those of the
other house, and on the morrow the difference was so great that Mary and
Anne were not more than beginning breakfast when Charles came in to say
that they were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs, that his sisters
were following with Captain Wentworth; his sisters meaning to visit Mary
and the child, and Captain Wentworth proposing also to wait on her for a
few minutes if not inconvenient; and though Charles had answered for the
child’s being in no such state as could make it inconvenient, Captain
Wentworth would not be satisfied without his running on to give notice.
Mary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive him,
while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the most
consoling, that it would soon be over. And it was soon over. In two minutes
after Charles’s preparation, the others appeared; they were in the drawing-
room. Her eye half met Captain Wentworth’s, a bow, a curtsey passed; she
heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that was right, said something to
the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an easy footing; the room seemed full,
full of persons and voices, but a few minutes ended it. Charles shewed
himself at the window, all was ready, their visitor had bowed and was gone,
the Miss Musgroves were gone too, suddenly resolving to walk to the end
of the village with the sportsmen: the room was cleared, and Anne might
finish her breakfast as she could.
“It is over! it is over!” she repeated to herself again and again, in nervous
gratitude. “The worst is over!”
Mary talked, but she could not attend. She had seen him. They had met.
They had been once more in the same room.
Soon, however, she began to reason with herself, and try to be feeling
less. Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been given up.
How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an interval had
banished into distance and indistinctness! What might not eight years do?
Events of every description, changes, alienations, removals—all, all must

be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past— how natural, how certain too!
It included nearly a third part of her own life.
Alas! with all her reasoning, she found, that to retentive feelings eight
years may be little more than nothing.
Now, how were his sentiments to be read? Was this like wishing to avoid
her? And the next moment she was hating herself for the folly which asked
the question.
On one other question which perhaps her utmost wisdom might not have
prevented, she was soon spared all suspense; for, after the Miss Musgroves
had returned and finished their visit at the Cottage she had this spontaneous
information from Mary:—
“Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he was so
attentive to me. Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they
went away, and he said, ‘You were so altered he should not have known you
again.’”
Mary had no feelings to make her respect her sister’s in a common way,
but she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar wound.
“Altered beyond his knowledge.” Anne fully submitted, in silent, deep
mortification. Doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for he
was not altered, or not for the worse. She had already acknowledged it to
herself, and she could not think differently, let him think of her as he would.
No: the years which had destroyed her youth and bloom had only given him
a more glowing, manly, open look, in no respect lessening his personal
advantages. She had seen the same Frederick Wentworth.
“So altered that he should not have known her again!” These were words
which could not but dwell with her. Yet she soon began to rejoice that she
had heard them. They were of sobering tendency; they allayed agitation;
they composed, and consequently must make her happier.
Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but
without an idea that they would be carried round to her. He had thought her
wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had spoken as he felt.
He had not forgiven Anne Elliot. She had used him ill, deserted and
disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a feebleness of character in
doing so, which his own decided, confident temper could not endure. She

had given him up to oblige others. It had been the effect of over-persuasion.
It had been weakness and timidity.
He had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman
since whom he thought her equal; but, except from some natural sensation
of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again. Her power with him was
gone for ever.
It was now his object to marry. He was rich, and being turned on shore,
fully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly tempted; actually
looking round, ready to fall in love with all the speed which a clear head
and a quick taste could allow. He had a heart for either of the Miss
Musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in short, for any pleasing young
woman who came in his way, excepting Anne Elliot. This was his only
secret exception, when he said to his sister, in answer to her suppositions:—
“Yes, here I am, Sophia, quite ready to make a foolish match. Anybody
between fifteen and thirty may have me for asking. A little beauty, and a
few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, and I am a lost man. Should
not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no society among women to
make him nice?”
He said it, she knew, to be contradicted. His bright proud eye spoke the
conviction that he was nice; and Anne Elliot was not out of his thoughts,
when he more seriously described the woman he should wish to meet with.
“A strong mind, with sweetness of manner,” made the first and the last of
the description.
“That is the woman I want,” said he. “Something a little inferior I shall of
course put up with, but it must not be much. If I am a fool, I shall be a fool
indeed, for I have thought on the subject more than most men.”

CHAPTER VIII.

From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the
same circle. They were soon dining in company together at Mr Musgrove’s,
for the little boy’s state could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for
absenting herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings and other
meetings.
Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the
proof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of
each; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement could
not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions which
conversation called forth. His profession qualified him, his disposition lead
him, to talk; and “That was in the year six;” “That happened before I went
to sea in the year six,” occurred in the course of the first evening they spent
together: and though his voice did not falter, and though she had no reason
to suppose his eye wandering towards her while he spoke, Anne felt the
utter impossibility, from her knowledge of his mind, that he could be
unvisited by remembrance any more than herself. There must be the same
immediate association of thought, though she was very far from conceiving
it to be of equal pain.
They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the
commonest civility required. Once so much to each other! Now nothing!
There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-
room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to
speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral and Mrs
Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could allow no
other exceptions even among the married couples), there could have been
no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no
countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than
strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual
estrangement.

When he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind.
There was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the
party; and he was very much questioned, and especially by the two Miss
Musgroves, who seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the
manner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours, &c., and their
surprise at his accounts, at learning the degree of accommodation and
arrangement which was practicable, drew from him some pleasant ridicule,
which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been ignorant,
and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be living on board
without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if there were, or any servant
to wait, or any knife and fork to use.
From thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs
Musgrove’s who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying—
“Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare
say he would have been just such another by this time.”
Anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs Musgrove
relieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore, could not
keep pace with the conversation of the others.
When she could let her attention take its natural course again, she found
the Miss Musgroves just fetching the Navy List (their own navy list, the
first that had ever been at Uppercross), and sitting down together to pore
over it, with the professed view of finding out the ships that Captain
Wentworth had commanded.
“Your first was the Asp, I remember; we will look for the Asp.”
“You will not find her there. Quite worn out and broken up. I was the last
man who commanded her. Hardly fit for service then. Reported fit for home
service for a year or two, and so I was sent off to the West Indies.”
The girls looked all amazement.
“The Admiralty,” he continued, “entertain themselves now and then, with
sending a few hundred men to sea, in a ship not fit to be employed. But they
have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that may just as
well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to distinguish the
very set who may be least missed.”
“Phoo! phoo!” cried the Admiral, “what stuff these young fellows talk!
Never was a better sloop than the Asp in her day. For an old built sloop, you

would not see her equal. Lucky fellow to get her! He knows there must
have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at the same time.
Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more interest than his.”
“I felt my luck, Admiral, I assure you;” replied Captain Wentworth,
seriously. “I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can desire. It
was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a very great object, I
wanted to be doing something.”
“To be sure you did. What should a young fellow like you do ashore for
half a year together? If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be afloat
again.”
“But, Captain Wentworth,” cried Louisa, “how vexed you must have
been when you came to the Asp, to see what an old thing they had given
you.”
“I knew pretty well what she was before that day;” said he, smiling. “I
had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the fashion and
strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among half your
acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which at last, on some
very wet day, is lent to yourself. Ah! she was a dear old Asp to me. She did
all that I wanted. I knew she would. I knew that we should either go to the
bottom together, or that she would be the making of me; and I never had
two days of foul weather all the time I was at sea in her; and after taking
privateers enough to be very entertaining, I had the good luck in my
passage home the next autumn, to fall in with the very French frigate I
wanted. I brought her into Plymouth; and here another instance of luck. We
had not been six hours in the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted
four days and nights, and which would have done for poor old Asp in half
the time; our touch with the Great Nation not having much improved our
condition. Four-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a
gallant Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the
newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought
about me.” Anne’s shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss
Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of
pity and horror.
“And so then, I suppose,” said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if
thinking aloud, “so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met with
our poor boy. Charles, my dear,” (beckoning him to her), “do ask Captain

Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I always
forgot.”
“It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left ill at Gibraltar,
with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Wentworth.”
“Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of
mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to hear
him talked of by such a good friend.”
Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case,
only nodded in reply, and walked away.
The girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth
could not deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his
own hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little
statement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class,
observing over it that she too had been one of the best friends man ever had.
“Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia! How fast I made
money in her. A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together off
the Western Islands. Poor Harville, sister! You know how much he wanted
money: worse than myself. He had a wife. Excellent fellow. I shall never
forget his happiness. He felt it all, so much for her sake. I wished for him
again the next summer, when I had still the same luck in the
Mediterranean.”
“And I am sure, Sir,” said Mrs Musgrove, “it was a lucky day for us,
when you were put captain into that ship. We shall never forget what you
did.”
Her feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only
in part, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts,
looked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more.
“My brother,” whispered one of the girls; “mamma is thinking of poor
Richard.”
“Poor dear fellow!” continued Mrs Musgrove; “he was grown so steady,
and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care! Ah! it
would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you. I assure you,
Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you.”
There was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth’s face at this
speech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome mouth,

which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove’s kind
wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get rid of him;
but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to be detected by
any who understood him less than herself; in another moment he was
perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly afterwards coming up
to the sofa, on which she and Mrs Musgrove were sitting, took a place by
the latter, and entered into conversation with her, in a low voice, about her
son, doing it with so much sympathy and natural grace, as shewed the
kindest consideration for all that was real and unabsurd in the parent’s
feelings.
They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily
made room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove. It was no
insignificant barrier, indeed. Mrs Musgrove was of a comfortable,
substantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good cheer and
good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the agitations of
Anne’s slender form, and pensive face, may be considered as very
completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some credit for
the self-command with which he attended to her large fat sighings over the
destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for.
Personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary proportions.
A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep affliction, as the most
graceful set of limbs in the world. But, fair or not fair, there are unbecoming
conjunctions, which reason will patronize in vain—which taste cannot
tolerate—which ridicule will seize.
The Admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room
with his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife, now came up
to Captain Wentworth, and without any observation of what he might be
interrupting, thinking only of his own thoughts, began with—
“If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring, Frederick, you would
have been asked to give a passage to Lady Mary Grierson and her
daughters.”
“Should I? I am glad I was not a week later then.”
The Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry. He defended himself;
though professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on board a
ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few hours might
comprehend.

“But, if I know myself,” said he, “this is from no want of gallantry
towards them. It is rather from feeling how impossible it is, with all one’s
efforts, and all one’s sacrifices, to make the accommodations on board such
as women ought to have. There can be no want of gallantry, Admiral, in
rating the claims of women to every personal comfort high, and this is what
I do. I hate to hear of women on board, or to see them on board; and no ship
under my command shall ever convey a family of ladies anywhere, if I can
help it.”
This brought his sister upon him.
“Oh! Frederick! But I cannot believe it of you.—All idle refinement!—
Women may be as comfortable on board, as in the best house in England. I
believe I have lived as much on board as most women, and I know nothing
superior to the accommodations of a man-of-war. I declare I have not a
comfort or an indulgence about me, even at Kellynch Hall,” (with a kind
bow to Anne), “beyond what I always had in most of the ships I have lived
in; and they have been five altogether.”
“Nothing to the purpose,” replied her brother. “You were living with your
husband, and were the only woman on board.”
“But you, yourself, brought Mrs Harville, her sister, her cousin, and three
children, round from Portsmouth to Plymouth. Where was this superfine,
extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then?”
“All merged in my friendship, Sophia. I would assist any brother officer’s
wife that I could, and I would bring anything of Harville’s from the world’s
end, if he wanted it. But do not imagine that I did not feel it an evil in
itself.”
“Depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable.”
“I might not like them the better for that perhaps. Such a number of
women and children have no right to be comfortable on board.”
“My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly. Pray, what would become
of us poor sailors’ wives, who often want to be conveyed to one port or
another, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings?”
“My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking Mrs Harville and all her
family to Plymouth.”
“But I hate to hear you talking so like a fine gentleman, and as if women
were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures. We none of us expect to be

in smooth water all our days.”
“Ah! my dear,” said the Admiral, “when he has got a wife, he will sing a
different tune. When he is married, if we have the good luck to live to
another war, we shall see him do as you and I, and a great many others,
have done. We shall have him very thankful to anybody that will bring him
his wife.”
“Ay, that we shall.”
“Now I have done,” cried Captain Wentworth. “When once married
people begin to attack me with,—‘Oh! you will think very differently, when
you are married.’ I can only say, ‘No, I shall not;’ and then they say again,
‘Yes, you will,’ and there is an end of it.”
He got up and moved away.
“What a great traveller you must have been, ma’am!” said Mrs Musgrove
to Mrs Croft.
“Pretty well, ma’am, in the fifteen years of my marriage; though many
women have done more. I have crossed the Atlantic four times, and have
been once to the East Indies, and back again, and only once; besides being
in different places about home: Cork, and Lisbon, and Gibraltar. But I never
went beyond the Streights, and never was in the West Indies. We do not call
Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies.”
Mrs Musgrove had not a word to say in dissent; she could not accuse
herself of having ever called them anything in the whole course of her life.
“And I do assure you, ma’am,” pursued Mrs Croft, “that nothing can
exceed the accommodations of a man-of-war; I speak, you know, of the
higher rates. When you come to a frigate, of course, you are more confined;
though any reasonable woman may be perfectly happy in one of them; and I
can safely say, that the happiest part of my life has been spent on board a
ship. While we were together, you know, there was nothing to be feared.
Thank God! I have always been blessed with excellent health, and no
climate disagrees with me. A little disordered always the first twenty-four
hours of going to sea, but never knew what sickness was afterwards. The
only time I ever really suffered in body or mind, the only time that I ever
fancied myself unwell, or had any ideas of danger, was the winter that I
passed by myself at Deal, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in the
North Seas. I lived in perpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of

imaginary complaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when I
should hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing
ever ailed me, and I never met with the smallest inconvenience.”
“Aye, to be sure. Yes, indeed, oh yes! I am quite of your opinion, Mrs
Croft,” was Mrs Musgrove’s hearty answer. “There is nothing so bad as a
separation. I am quite of your opinion. I know what it is, for Mr Musgrove
always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they are over, and he is
safe back again.”
The evening ended with dancing. On its being proposed, Anne offered
her services, as usual; and though her eyes would sometimes fill with tears
as she sat at the instrument, she was extremely glad to be employed, and
desired nothing in return but to be unobserved.
It was a merry, joyous party, and no one seemed in higher spirits than
Captain Wentworth. She felt that he had every thing to elevate him which
general attention and deference, and especially the attention of all the young
women, could do. The Miss Hayters, the females of the family of cousins
already mentioned, were apparently admitted to the honour of being in love
with him; and as for Henrietta and Louisa, they both seemed so entirely
occupied by him, that nothing but the continued appearance of the most
perfect good-will between themselves could have made it credible that they
were not decided rivals. If he were a little spoilt by such universal, such
eager admiration, who could wonder?
These were some of the thoughts which occupied Anne, while her fingers
were mechanically at work, proceeding for half an hour together, equally
without error, and without consciousness. Once she felt that he was looking
at herself, observing her altered features, perhaps, trying to trace in them the
ruins of the face which had once charmed him; and once she knew that he
must have spoken of her; she was hardly aware of it, till she heard the
answer; but then she was sure of his having asked his partner whether Miss
Elliot never danced? The answer was, “Oh, no; never; she has quite given
up dancing. She had rather play. She is never tired of playing.” Once, too,
he spoke to her. She had left the instrument on the dancing being over, and
he had sat down to try to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss
Musgroves an idea of. Unintentionally she returned to that part of the room;
he saw her, and, instantly rising, said, with studied politeness—

“I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;” and though she
immediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced
to sit down again.
Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches. His cold
politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything.

CHAPTER IX.

Captain Wentworth was come to Kellynch as to a home, to stay as long as
he liked, being as thoroughly the object of the Admiral’s fraternal kindness
as of his wife’s. He had intended, on first arriving, to proceed very soon into
Shropshire, and visit the brother settled in that country, but the attractions of
Uppercross induced him to put this off. There was so much of friendliness,
and of flattery, and of everything most bewitching in his reception there; the
old were so hospitable, the young so agreeable, that he could not but resolve
to remain where he was, and take all the charms and perfections of
Edward’s wife upon credit a little longer.
It was soon Uppercross with him almost every day. The Musgroves could
hardly be more ready to invite than he to come, particularly in the morning,
when he had no companion at home, for the Admiral and Mrs Croft were
generally out of doors together, interesting themselves in their new
possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and dawdling about in a way not
endurable to a third person, or driving out in a gig, lately added to their
establishment.
Hitherto there had been but one opinion of Captain Wentworth among the
Musgroves and their dependencies. It was unvarying, warm admiration
everywhere; but this intimate footing was not more than established, when a
certain Charles Hayter returned among them, to be a good deal disturbed by
it, and to think Captain Wentworth very much in the way.
Charles Hayter was the eldest of all the cousins, and a very amiable,
pleasing young man, between whom and Henrietta there had been a
considerable appearance of attachment previous to Captain Wentworth’s
introduction. He was in orders; and having a curacy in the neighbourhood,
where residence was not required, lived at his father’s house, only two
miles from Uppercross. A short absence from home had left his fair one
unguarded by his attentions at this critical period, and when he came back

he had the pain of finding very altered manners, and of seeing Captain
Wentworth.
Mrs Musgrove and Mrs Hayter were sisters. They had each had money,
but their marriages had made a material difference in their degree of
consequence. Mr Hayter had some property of his own, but it was
insignificant compared with Mr Musgrove’s; and while the Musgroves were
in the first class of society in the country, the young Hayters would, from
their parents’ inferior, retired, and unpolished way of living, and their own
defective education, have been hardly in any class at all, but for their
connexion with Uppercross, this eldest son of course excepted, who had
chosen to be a scholar and a gentleman, and who was very superior in
cultivation and manners to all the rest.
The two families had always been on excellent terms, there being no
pride on one side, and no envy on the other, and only such a consciousness
of superiority in the Miss Musgroves, as made them pleased to improve
their cousins. Charles’s attentions to Henrietta had been observed by her
father and mother without any disapprobation. “It would not be a great
match for her; but if Henrietta liked him,”—and Henrietta did seem to like
him.
Henrietta fully thought so herself, before Captain Wentworth came; but
from that time Cousin Charles had been very much forgotten.
Which of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Wentworth was as yet
quite doubtful, as far as Anne’s observation reached. Henrietta was perhaps
the prettiest, Louisa had the higher spirits; and she knew not now, whether
the more gentle or the more lively character were most likely to attract him.
Mr and Mrs Musgrove, either from seeing little, or from an entire
confidence in the discretion of both their daughters, and of all the young
men who came near them, seemed to leave everything to take its chance.
There was not the smallest appearance of solicitude or remark about them
in the Mansion-house; but it was different at the Cottage: the young couple
there were more disposed to speculate and wonder; and Captain Wentworth
had not been above four or five times in the Miss Musgroves’ company, and
Charles Hayter had but just reappeared, when Anne had to listen to the
opinions of her brother and sister, as to which was the one liked best.
Charles gave it for Louisa, Mary for Henrietta, but quite agreeing that to
have him marry either could be extremely delightful.

Charles “had never seen a pleasanter man in his life; and from what he
had once heard Captain Wentworth himself say, was very sure that he had
not made less than twenty thousand pounds by the war. Here was a fortune
at once; besides which, there would be the chance of what might be done in
any future war; and he was sure Captain Wentworth was as likely a man to
distinguish himself as any officer in the navy. Oh! it would be a capital
match for either of his sisters.”
“Upon my word it would,” replied Mary. “Dear me! If he should rise to
any very great honours! If he should ever be made a baronet! ‘Lady
Wentworth’ sounds very well. That would be a noble thing, indeed, for
Henrietta! She would take place of me then, and Henrietta would not dislike
that. Sir Frederick and Lady Wentworth! It would be but a new creation,
however, and I never think much of your new creations.”
It suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred on the very
account of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an end
to. She looked down very decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought it would
be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between the families
renewed—very sad for herself and her children.
“You know,” said she, “I cannot think him at all a fit match for Henrietta;
and considering the alliances which the Musgroves have made, she has no
right to throw herself away. I do not think any young woman has a right to
make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient to the principal
part of her family, and be giving bad connections to those who have not
been used to them. And, pray, who is Charles Hayter? Nothing but a
country curate. A most improper match for Miss Musgrove of Uppercross.”
Her husband, however, would not agree with her here; for besides having
a regard for his cousin, Charles Hayter was an eldest son, and he saw things
as an eldest son himself.
“Now you are talking nonsense, Mary,” was therefore his answer. “It
would not be a great match for Henrietta, but Charles has a very fair
chance, through the Spicers, of getting something from the Bishop in the
course of a year or two; and you will please to remember, that he is the
eldest son; whenever my uncle dies, he steps into very pretty property. The
estate at Winthrop is not less than two hundred and fifty acres, besides the
farm near Taunton, which is some of the best land in the country. I grant
you, that any of them but Charles would be a very shocking match for

Henrietta, and indeed it could not be; he is the only one that could be
possible; but he is a very good-natured, good sort of a fellow; and whenever
Winthrop comes into his hands, he will make a different sort of place of it,
and live in a very different sort of way; and with that property, he will never
be a contemptible man—good, freehold property. No, no; Henrietta might
do worse than marry Charles Hayter; and if she has him, and Louisa can get
Captain Wentworth, I shall be very well satisfied.”
“Charles may say what he pleases,” cried Mary to Anne, as soon as he
was out of the room, “but it would be shocking to have Henrietta marry
Charles Hayter; a very bad thing for her, and still worse for me; and
therefore it is very much to be wished that Captain Wentworth may soon put
him quite out of her head, and I have very little doubt that he has. She took
hardly any notice of Charles Hayter yesterday. I wish you had been there to
see her behaviour. And as to Captain Wentworth’s liking Louisa as well as
Henrietta, it is nonsense to say so; for he certainly does like Henrietta a
great deal the best. But Charles is so positive! I wish you had been with us
yesterday, for then you might have decided between us; and I am sure you
would have thought as I did, unless you had been determined to give it
against me.”
A dinner at Mr Musgrove’s had been the occasion when all these things
should have been seen by Anne; but she had staid at home, under the mixed
plea of a headache of her own, and some return of indisposition in little
Charles. She had thought only of avoiding Captain Wentworth; but an
escape from being appealed to as umpire was now added to the advantages
of a quiet evening.
As to Captain Wentworth’s views, she deemed it of more consequence
that he should know his own mind early enough not to be endangering the
happiness of either sister, or impeaching his own honour, than that he
should prefer Henrietta to Louisa, or Louisa to Henrietta. Either of them
would, in all probability, make him an affectionate, good-humoured wife.
With regard to Charles Hayter, she had delicacy which must be pained by
any lightness of conduct in a well-meaning young woman, and a heart to
sympathize in any of the sufferings it occasioned; but if Henrietta found
herself mistaken in the nature of her feelings, the alteration could not be
understood too soon.

Charles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and mortify him in his
cousin’s behaviour. She had too old a regard for him to be so wholly
estranged as might in two meetings extinguish every past hope, and leave
him nothing to do but to keep away from Uppercross: but there was such a
change as became very alarming, when such a man as Captain Wentworth
was to be regarded as the probable cause. He had been absent only two
Sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even to the height of
his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his present curacy, and obtaining
that of Uppercross instead. It had then seemed the object nearest her heart,
that Dr Shirley, the rector, who for more than forty years had been zealously
discharging all the duties of his office, but was now growing too infirm for
many of them, should be quite fixed on engaging a curate; should make his
curacy quite as good as he could afford, and should give Charles Hayter the
promise of it. The advantage of his having to come only to Uppercross,
instead of going six miles another way; of his having, in every respect, a
better curacy; of his belonging to their dear Dr Shirley, and of dear, good Dr
Shirley’s being relieved from the duty which he could no longer get through
without most injurious fatigue, had been a great deal, even to Louisa, but
had been almost everything to Henrietta. When he came back, alas! the zeal
of the business was gone by. Louisa could not listen at all to his account of
a conversation which he had just held with Dr Shirley: she was at a window,
looking out for Captain Wentworth; and even Henrietta had at best only a
divided attention to give, and seemed to have forgotten all the former doubt
and solicitude of the negotiation.
“Well, I am very glad indeed: but I always thought you would have it; I
always thought you sure. It did not appear to me that—in short, you know,
Dr Shirley must have a curate, and you had secured his promise. Is he
coming, Louisa?”
One morning, very soon after the dinner at the Musgroves, at which Anne
had not been present, Captain Wentworth walked into the drawing-room at
the Cottage, where were only herself and the little invalid Charles, who was
lying on the sofa.
The surprise of finding himself almost alone with Anne Elliot, deprived
his manners of their usual composure: he started, and could only say, “I
thought the Miss Musgroves had been here: Mrs Musgrove told me I should

find them here,” before he walked to the window to recollect himself, and
feel how he ought to behave.
“They are up stairs with my sister: they will be down in a few moments, I
dare say,” had been Anne’s reply, in all the confusion that was natural; and
if the child had not called her to come and do something for him, she would
have been out of the room the next moment, and released Captain
Wentworth as well as herself.
He continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, “I
hope the little boy is better,” was silent.
She was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy
her patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very great
satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little vestibule. She
hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the house; but it proved to
be one much less calculated for making matters easy—Charles Hayter,
probably not at all better pleased by the sight of Captain Wentworth than
Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of Anne.
She only attempted to say, “How do you do? Will you not sit down? The
others will be here presently.”
Captain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not ill-
disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to his
attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the newspaper; and
Captain Wentworth returned to his window.
Another minute brought another addition. The younger boy, a remarkable
stout, forward child, of two years old, having got the door opened for him
by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and
went straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his claim to
anything good that might be giving away.
There being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his aunt
would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten himself upon
her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was about Charles, she
could not shake him off. She spoke to him, ordered, entreated, and insisted
in vain. Once she did contrive to push him away, but the boy had the greater
pleasure in getting upon her back again directly.
“Walter,” said she, “get down this moment. You are extremely
troublesome. I am very angry with you.”

“Walter,” cried Charles Hayter, “why do you not do as you are bid? Do
not you hear your aunt speak? Come to me, Walter, come to cousin
Charles.”
But not a bit did Walter stir.
In another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being
released from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent
down her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened from
around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew that
Captain Wentworth had done it.
Her sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless. She could
not even thank him. She could only hang over little Charles, with most
disordered feelings. His kindness in stepping forward to her relief, the
manner, the silence in which it had passed, the little particulars of the
circumstance, with the conviction soon forced on her by the noise he was
studiously making with the child, that he meant to avoid hearing her thanks,
and rather sought to testify that her conversation was the last of his wants,
produced such a confusion of varying, but very painful agitation, as she
could not recover from, till enabled by the entrance of Mary and the Miss
Musgroves to make over her little patient to their cares, and leave the room.
She could not stay. It might have been an opportunity of watching the loves
and jealousies of the four—they were now altogether; but she could stay for
none of it. It was evident that Charles Hayter was not well inclined towards
Captain Wentworth. She had a strong impression of his having said, in a
vext tone of voice, after Captain Wentworth’s interference, “You ought to
have minded me, Walter; I told you not to teaze your aunt;” and could
comprehend his regretting that Captain Wentworth should do what he ought
to have done himself. But neither Charles Hayter’s feelings, nor anybody’s
feelings, could interest her, till she had a little better arranged her own. She
was ashamed of herself, quite ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome
by such a trifle; but so it was, and it required a long application of solitude
and reflection to recover her.

CHAPTER X.

Other opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur.
Anne had soon been in company with all the four together often enough to
have an opinion, though too wise to acknowledge as much at home, where
she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor wife; for while she
considered Louisa to be rather the favourite, she could not but think, as far
as she might dare to judge from memory and experience, that Captain
Wentworth was not in love with either. They were more in love with him;
yet there it was not love. It was a little fever of admiration; but it might,
probably must, end in love with some. Charles Hayter seemed aware of
being slighted, and yet Henrietta had sometimes the air of being divided
between them. Anne longed for the power of representing to them all what
they were about, and of pointing out some of the evils they were exposing
themselves to. She did not attribute guile to any. It was the highest
satisfaction to her to believe Captain Wentworth not in the least aware of
the pain he was occasioning. There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in
his manner. He had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims
of Charles Hayter. He was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for
accepting must be the word) of two young women at once.
After a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed to quit the field.
Three days had passed without his coming once to Uppercross; a most
decided change. He had even refused one regular invitation to dinner; and
having been found on the occasion by Mr Musgrove with some large books
before him, Mr and Mrs Musgrove were sure all could not be right, and
talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death. It was Mary’s
hope and belief that he had received a positive dismissal from Henrietta,
and her husband lived under the constant dependence of seeing him to-
morrow. Anne could only feel that Charles Hayter was wise.
One morning, about this time Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth
being gone a-shooting together, as the sisters in the Cottage were sitting

quietly at work, they were visited at the window by the sisters from the
Mansion-house.
It was a very fine November day, and the Miss Musgroves came through
the little grounds, and stopped for no other purpose than to say, that they
were going to take a long walk, and, therefore, concluded Mary could not
like to go with them; and when Mary immediately replied, with some
jealousy at not being supposed a good walker, “Oh, yes, I should like to join
you very much, I am very fond of a long walk;” Anne felt persuaded, by the
looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what they did not wish, and
admired again the sort of necessity which the family habits seemed to
produce, of everything being to be communicated, and everything being to
be done together, however undesired and inconvenient. She tried to
dissuade Mary from going, but in vain; and that being the case, thought it
best to accept the Miss Musgroves’ much more cordial invitation to herself
to go likewise, as she might be useful in turning back with her sister, and
lessening the interference in any plan of their own.
“I cannot imagine why they should suppose I should not like a long
walk,” said Mary, as she went up stairs. “Everybody is always supposing
that I am not a good walker; and yet they would not have been pleased, if
we had refused to join them. When people come in this manner on purpose
to ask us, how can one say no?”
Just as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned. They had taken out
a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early. Their
time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready for this walk,
and they entered into it with pleasure. Could Anne have foreseen such a
junction, she would have staid at home; but, from some feelings of interest
and curiosity, she fancied now that it was too late to retract, and the whole
six set forward together in the direction chosen by the Miss Musgroves,
who evidently considered the walk as under their guidance.
Anne’s object was, not to be in the way of anybody; and where the
narrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep
with her brother and sister. Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the
exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the
tawny leaves, and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few
of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn, that season of
peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness,

that season which had drawn from every poet, worthy of being read, some
attempt at description, or some lines of feeling. She occupied her mind as
much as possible in such like musings and quotations; but it was not
possible, that when within reach of Captain Wentworth’s conversation with
either of the Miss Musgroves, she should not try to hear it; yet she caught
little very remarkable. It was mere lively chat, such as any young persons,
on an intimate footing, might fall into. He was more engaged with Louisa
than with Henrietta. Louisa certainly put more forward for his notice than
her sister. This distinction appeared to increase, and there was one speech of
Louisa’s which struck her. After one of the many praises of the day, which
were continually bursting forth, Captain Wentworth added:—
“What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister! They meant to
take a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of
these hills. They talked of coming into this side of the country. I wonder
whereabouts they will upset to-day. Oh! it does happen very often, I assure
you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as lieve be tossed out as
not.”
“Ah! You make the most of it, I know,” cried Louisa, “but if it were
really so, I should do just the same in her place. If I loved a man, as she
loves the Admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should ever
separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven safely by
anybody else.”
It was spoken with enthusiasm.
“Had you?” cried he, catching the same tone; “I honour you!” And there
was silence between them for a little while.
Anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again. The sweet scenes
of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet, fraught with
the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining happiness, and the
images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone together, blessed her
memory. She roused herself to say, as they struck by order into another
path, “Is not this one of the ways to Winthrop?” But nobody heard, or, at
least, nobody answered her.
Winthrop, however, or its environs—for young men are, sometimes to be
met with, strolling about near home—was their destination; and after
another half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the
ploughs at work, and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting

the sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have spring again, they
gained the summit of the most considerable hill, which parted Uppercross
and Winthrop, and soon commanded a full view of the latter, at the foot of
the hill on the other side.
Winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before them;
an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and
buildings of a farm-yard.
Mary exclaimed, “Bless me! here is Winthrop. I declare I had no idea!
Well now, I think we had better turn back; I am excessively tired.”
Henrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin Charles walking
along any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as Mary
wished; but “No!” said Charles Musgrove, and “No, no!” cried Louisa more
eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the matter
warmly.
Charles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution of
calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently, though
more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too. But this was one of the
points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when he recommended
the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at Winthrop, as she felt
so tired, she resolutely answered, “Oh! no, indeed! walking up that hill
again would do her more harm than any sitting down could do her good;”
and, in short, her look and manner declared, that go she would not.
After a little succession of these sort of debates and consultations, it was
settled between Charles and his two sisters, that he and Henrietta should
just run down for a few minutes, to see their aunt and cousins, while the rest
of the party waited for them at the top of the hill. Louisa seemed the
principal arranger of the plan; and, as she went a little way with them, down
the hill, still talking to Henrietta, Mary took the opportunity of looking
scornfully around her, and saying to Captain Wentworth—
“It is very unpleasant, having such connexions! But, I assure you, I have
never been in the house above twice in my life.”
She received no other answer, than an artificial, assenting smile, followed
by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which Anne perfectly knew
the meaning of.

The brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheerful spot: Louisa
returned; and Mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the step of a
stile, was very well satisfied so long as the others all stood about her; but
when Louisa drew Captain Wentworth away, to try for a gleaning of nuts in
an adjoining hedge-row, and they were gone by degrees quite out of sight
and sound, Mary was happy no longer; she quarrelled with her own seat,
was sure Louisa had got a much better somewhere, and nothing could
prevent her from going to look for a better also. She turned through the
same gate, but could not see them. Anne found a nice seat for her, on a dry
sunny bank, under the hedge-row, in which she had no doubt of their still
being, in some spot or other. Mary sat down for a moment, but it would not
do; she was sure Louisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and she
would go on till she overtook her.
Anne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down; and she very soon heard
Captain Wentworth and Louisa in the hedge-row, behind her, as if making
their way back along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the centre. They
were speaking as they drew near. Louisa’s voice was the first distinguished.
She seemed to be in the middle of some eager speech. What Anne first
heard was—
“And so, I made her go. I could not bear that she should be frightened
from the visit by such nonsense. What! would I be turned back from doing a
thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right, by the airs and
interference of such a person, or of any person I may say? No, I have no
idea of being so easily persuaded. When I have made up my mind, I have
made it; and Henrietta seemed entirely to have made up hers to call at
Winthrop to-day; and yet, she was as near giving it up, out of nonsensical
complaisance!”
“She would have turned back then, but for you?”
“She would indeed. I am almost ashamed to say it.”
“Happy for her, to have such a mind as yours at hand! After the hints you
gave just now, which did but confirm my own observations, the last time I
was in company with him, I need not affect to have no comprehension of
what is going on. I see that more than a mere dutiful morning visit to your
aunt was in question; and woe betide him, and her too, when it comes to
things of consequence, when they are placed in circumstances requiring
fortitude and strength of mind, if she have not resolution enough to resist

idle interference in such a trifle as this. Your sister is an amiable creature;
but yours is the character of decision and firmness, I see. If you value her
conduct or happiness, infuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can.
But this, no doubt, you have been always doing. It is the worst evil of too
yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be
depended on. You are never sure of a good impression being durable;
everybody may sway it. Let those who would be happy be firm. Here is a
nut,” said he, catching one down from an upper bough, “to exemplify: a
beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has outlived all
the storms of autumn. Not a puncture, not a weak spot anywhere. This nut,”
he continued, with playful solemnity, “while so many of his brethren have
fallen and been trodden under foot, is still in possession of all the happiness
that a hazel nut can be supposed capable of.” Then returning to his former
earnest tone—“My first wish for all whom I am interested in, is that they
should be firm. If Louisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her
November of life, she will cherish all her present powers of mind.”
He had done, and was unanswered. It would have surprised Anne if
Louisa could have readily answered such a speech: words of such interest,
spoken with such serious warmth! She could imagine what Louisa was
feeling. For herself, she feared to move, lest she should be seen. While she
remained, a bush of low rambling holly protected her, and they were
moving on. Before they were beyond her hearing, however, Louisa spoke
again.
“Mary is good-natured enough in many respects,” said she; “but she does
sometimes provoke me excessively, by her nonsense and pride—the Elliot
pride. She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride. We do so wish that
Charles had married Anne instead. I suppose you know he wanted to marry
Anne?”
After a moment’s pause, Captain Wentworth said—
“Do you mean that she refused him?”
“Oh! yes; certainly.”
“When did that happen?”
“I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at school at the time; but
I believe about a year before he married Mary. I wish she had accepted him.
We should all have liked her a great deal better; and papa and mamma
always think it was her great friend Lady Russell’s doing, that she did not.

They think Charles might not be learned and bookish enough to please
Lady Russell, and that therefore, she persuaded Anne to refuse him.”
The sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished no more. Her own
emotions still kept her fixed. She had much to recover from, before she
could move. The listener’s proverbial fate was not absolutely hers; she had
heard no evil of herself, but she had heard a great deal of very painful
import. She saw how her own character was considered by Captain
Wentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity
about her in his manner which must give her extreme agitation.
As soon as she could, she went after Mary, and having found, and walked
back with her to their former station, by the stile, felt some comfort in their
whole party being immediately afterwards collected, and once more in
motion together. Her spirits wanted the solitude and silence which only
numbers could give.
Charles and Henrietta returned, bringing, as may be conjectured, Charles
Hayter with them. The minutiae of the business Anne could not attempt to
understand; even Captain Wentworth did not seem admitted to perfect
confidence here; but that there had been a withdrawing on the gentleman’s
side, and a relenting on the lady’s, and that they were now very glad to be
together again, did not admit a doubt. Henrietta looked a little ashamed, but
very well pleased;—Charles Hayter exceedingly happy: and they were
devoted to each other almost from the first instant of their all setting
forward for Uppercross.
Everything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing
could be plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where
they were not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two. In
a long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they were
thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of the three
which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne necessarily
belonged. She joined Charles and Mary, and was tired enough to be very
glad of Charles’s other arm; but Charles, though in very good humour with
her, was out of temper with his wife. Mary had shewn herself disobliging to
him, and was now to reap the consequence, which consequence was his
dropping her arm almost every moment to cut off the heads of some nettles
in the hedge with his switch; and when Mary began to complain of it, and
lament her being ill-used, according to custom, in being on the hedge side,

while Anne was never incommoded on the other, he dropped the arms of
both to hunt after a weasel which he had a momentary glance of, and they
could hardly get him along at all.
This long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of it
was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit, the
carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time heard,
was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft’s gig. He and his wife
had taken their intended drive, and were returning home. Upon hearing how
long a walk the young people had engaged in, they kindly offered a seat to
any lady who might be particularly tired; it would save her a full mile, and
they were going through Uppercross. The invitation was general, and
generally declined. The Miss Musgroves were not at all tired, and Mary was
either offended, by not being asked before any of the others, or what Louisa
called the Elliot pride could not endure to make a third in a one horse
chaise.
The walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an
opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again, when
Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something to his
sister. The something might be guessed by its effects.
“Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired,” cried Mrs Croft. “Do let us have
the pleasure of taking you home. Here is excellent room for three, I assure
you. If we were all like you, I believe we might sit four. You must, indeed,
you must.”
Anne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to decline,
she was not allowed to proceed. The Admiral’s kind urgency came in
support of his wife’s; they would not be refused; they compressed
themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a corner, and
Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her, and quietly
obliged her to be assisted into the carriage.
Yes; he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt that he had placed
her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his
perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. She was very
much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these
things made apparent. This little circumstance seemed the completion of all
that had gone before. She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he
could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and

considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of
her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her
suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former
sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it
was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not
contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that
she knew not which prevailed.
Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at
first unconsciously given. They had travelled half their way along the rough
lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. She then found them
talking of “Frederick.”
“He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy,” said
the Admiral; “but there is no saying which. He has been running after them,
too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of
the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors,
Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How
many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our
sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?”
“We had better not talk about it, my dear,” replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly;
“for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she
would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known
you by character, however, long before.”
“Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to
wait for besides? I do not like having such things so long in hand. I wish
Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home one of
these young ladies to Kellynch. Then there would always be company for
them. And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly know one from the
other.”
“Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed,” said Mrs Croft, in a tone
of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers might
not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; “and a very
respectable family. One could not be connected with better people. My dear
Admiral, that post! we shall certainly take that post.”
But by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily
passed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her hand
they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and Anne, with some

amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined no bad
representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found herself safely
deposited by them at the Cottage.

CHAPTER XI.

The time now approached for Lady Russell’s return: the day was even
fixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was resettled, was
looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and beginning to think
how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it.
It would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within
half a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and there
must be intercourse between the two families. This was against her; but on
the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross, that in
removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him behind, than
as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed she must, on this
interesting question, be the gainer, almost as certainly as in her change of
domestic society, in leaving poor Mary for Lady Russell.
She wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing Captain
Wentworth at the Hall: those rooms had witnessed former meetings which
would be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious for
the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth never meeting
anywhere. They did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance
now could do any good; and were Lady Russell to see them together, she
might think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little.
These points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal from
Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long enough. Her
usefulness to little Charles would always give some sweetness to the
memory of her two months’ visit there, but he was gaining strength apace,
and she had nothing else to stay for.
The conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a way which she
had not at all imagined. Captain Wentworth, after being unseen and unheard
of at Uppercross for two whole days, appeared again among them to justify
himself by a relation of what had kept him away.

A letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found him out at last,
had brought intelligence of Captain Harville’s being settled with his family
at Lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite unknowingly, within
twenty miles of each other. Captain Harville had never been in good health
since a severe wound which he received two years before, and Captain
Wentworth’s anxiety to see him had determined him to go immediately to
Lyme. He had been there for four-and-twenty hours. His acquittal was
complete, his friendship warmly honoured, a lively interest excited for his
friend, and his description of the fine country about Lyme so feelingly
attended to by the party, that an earnest desire to see Lyme themselves, and
a project for going thither was the consequence.
The young people were all wild to see Lyme. Captain Wentworth talked
of going there again himself, it was only seventeen miles from Uppercross;
though November, the weather was by no means bad; and, in short, Louisa,
who was the most eager of the eager, having formed the resolution to go,
and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked, being now armed with the
idea of merit in maintaining her own way, bore down all the wishes of her
father and mother for putting it off till summer; and to Lyme they were to
go—Charles, Mary, Anne, Henrietta, Louisa, and Captain Wentworth.
The first heedless scheme had been to go in the morning and return at
night; but to this Mr Musgrove, for the sake of his horses, would not
consent; and when it came to be rationally considered, a day in the middle
of November would not leave much time for seeing a new place, after
deducting seven hours, as the nature of the country required, for going and
returning. They were, consequently, to stay the night there, and not to be
expected back till the next day’s dinner. This was felt to be a considerable
amendment; and though they all met at the Great House at rather an early
breakfast hour, and set off very punctually, it was so much past noon before
the two carriages, Mr Musgrove’s coach containing the four ladies, and
Charles’s curricle, in which he drove Captain Wentworth, were descending
the long hill into Lyme, and entering upon the still steeper street of the town
itself, that it was very evident they would not have more than time for
looking about them, before the light and warmth of the day were gone.
After securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the inns,
the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly down to the
sea. They were come too late in the year for any amusement or variety

which Lyme, as a public place, might offer. The rooms were shut up, the
lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any family but of the residents left; and, as
there is nothing to admire in the buildings themselves, the remarkable
situation of the town, the principal street almost hurrying into the water, the
walk to the Cobb, skirting round the pleasant little bay, which, in the
season, is animated with bathing machines and company; the Cobb itself, its
old wonders and new improvements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs
stretching out to the east of the town, are what the stranger’s eye will seek;
and a very strange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the
immediate environs of Lyme, to make him wish to know it better. The
scenes in its neighbourhood, Charmouth, with its high grounds and
extensive sweeps of country, and still more, its sweet, retired bay, backed by
dark cliffs, where fragments of low rock among the sands, make it the
happiest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for sitting in unwearied
contemplation; the woody varieties of the cheerful village of Up Lyme; and,
above all, Pinny, with its green chasms between romantic rocks, where the
scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant growth, declare that many a
generation must have passed away since the first partial falling of the cliff
prepared the ground for such a state, where a scene so wonderful and so
lovely is exhibited, as may more than equal any of the resembling scenes of
the far-famed Isle of Wight: these places must be visited, and visited again,
to make the worth of Lyme understood.
The party from Uppercross passing down by the now deserted and
melancholy looking rooms, and still descending, soon found themselves on
the sea-shore; and lingering only, as all must linger and gaze on a first
return to the sea, who ever deserved to look on it at all, proceeded towards
the Cobb, equally their object in itself and on Captain Wentworth’s account:
for in a small house, near the foot of an old pier of unknown date, were the
Harvilles settled. Captain Wentworth turned in to call on his friend; the
others walked on, and he was to join them on the Cobb.
They were by no means tired of wondering and admiring; and not even
Louisa seemed to feel that they had parted with Captain Wentworth long,
when they saw him coming after them, with three companions, all well
known already, by description, to be Captain and Mrs Harville, and a
Captain Benwick, who was staying with them.

Captain Benwick had some time ago been first lieutenant of the Laconia;
and the account which Captain Wentworth had given of him, on his return
from Lyme before, his warm praise of him as an excellent young man and
an officer, whom he had always valued highly, which must have stamped
him well in the esteem of every listener, had been followed by a little
history of his private life, which rendered him perfectly interesting in the
eyes of all the ladies. He had been engaged to Captain Harville’s sister, and
was now mourning her loss. They had been a year or two waiting for
fortune and promotion. Fortune came, his prize-money as lieutenant being
great; promotion, too, came at last; but Fanny Harville did not live to know
it. She had died the preceding summer while he was at sea. Captain
Wentworth believed it impossible for man to be more attached to woman
than poor Benwick had been to Fanny Harville, or to be more deeply
afflicted under the dreadful change. He considered his disposition as of the
sort which must suffer heavily, uniting very strong feelings with quiet,
serious, and retiring manners, and a decided taste for reading, and sedentary
pursuits. To finish the interest of the story, the friendship between him and
the Harvilles seemed, if possible, augmented by the event which closed all
their views of alliance, and Captain Benwick was now living with them
entirely. Captain Harville had taken his present house for half a year; his
taste, and his health, and his fortune, all directing him to a residence
inexpensive, and by the sea; and the grandeur of the country, and the
retirement of Lyme in the winter, appeared exactly adapted to Captain
Benwick’s state of mind. The sympathy and good-will excited towards
Captain Benwick was very great.
“And yet,” said Anne to herself, as they now moved forward to meet the
party, “he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have. I cannot
believe his prospects so blighted for ever. He is younger than I am; younger
in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man. He will rally again, and be
happy with another.”
They all met, and were introduced. Captain Harville was a tall, dark man,
with a sensible, benevolent countenance; a little lame; and from strong
features and want of health, looking much older than Captain Wentworth.
Captain Benwick looked, and was, the youngest of the three, and, compared
with either of them, a little man. He had a pleasing face and a melancholy
air, just as he ought to have, and drew back from conversation.

Captain Harville, though not equalling Captain Wentworth in manners,
was a perfect gentleman, unaffected, warm, and obliging. Mrs Harville, a
degree less polished than her husband, seemed, however, to have the same
good feelings; and nothing could be more pleasant than their desire of
considering the whole party as friends of their own, because the friends of
Captain Wentworth, or more kindly hospitable than their entreaties for their
all promising to dine with them. The dinner, already ordered at the inn, was
at last, though unwillingly, accepted as a excuse; but they seemed almost
hurt that Captain Wentworth should have brought any such party to Lyme,
without considering it as a thing of course that they should dine with them.
There was so much attachment to Captain Wentworth in all this, and such
a bewitching charm in a degree of hospitality so uncommon, so unlike the
usual style of give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality and
display, that Anne felt her spirits not likely to be benefited by an increasing
acquaintance among his brother-officers. “These would have been all my
friends,” was her thought; and she had to struggle against a great tendency
to lowness.
On quitting the Cobb, they all went in-doors with their new friends, and
found rooms so small as none but those who invite from the heart could
think capable of accommodating so many. Anne had a moment’s
astonishment on the subject herself; but it was soon lost in the pleasanter
feelings which sprang from the sight of all the ingenious contrivances and
nice arrangements of Captain Harville, to turn the actual space to the best
account, to supply the deficiencies of lodging-house furniture, and defend
the windows and doors against the winter storms to be expected. The
varieties in the fitting-up of the rooms, where the common necessaries
provided by the owner, in the common indifferent plight, were contrasted
with some few articles of a rare species of wood, excellently worked up,
and with something curious and valuable from all the distant countries
Captain Harville had visited, were more than amusing to Anne; connected
as it all was with his profession, the fruit of its labours, the effect of its
influence on his habits, the picture of repose and domestic happiness it
presented, made it to her a something more, or less, than gratification.
Captain Harville was no reader; but he had contrived excellent
accommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves, for a tolerable
collection of well-bound volumes, the property of Captain Benwick. His

lameness prevented him from taking much exercise; but a mind of
usefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with constant employment
within. He drew, he varnished, he carpentered, he glued; he made toys for
the children; he fashioned new netting-needles and pins with improvements;
and if everything else was done, sat down to his large fishing-net at one
corner of the room.
Anne thought she left great happiness behind her when they quitted the
house; and Louisa, by whom she found herself walking, burst forth into
raptures of admiration and delight on the character of the navy; their
friendliness, their brotherliness, their openness, their uprightness; protesting
that she was convinced of sailors having more worth and warmth than any
other set of men in England; that they only knew how to live, and they only
deserved to be respected and loved.
They went back to dress and dine; and so well had the scheme answered
already, that nothing was found amiss; though its being “so entirely out of
season,” and the “no thoroughfare of Lyme,” and the “no expectation of
company,” had brought many apologies from the heads of the inn.
Anne found herself by this time growing so much more hardened to
being in Captain Wentworth’s company than she had at first imagined could
ever be, that the sitting down to the same table with him now, and the
interchange of the common civilities attending on it (they never got
beyond), was become a mere nothing.
The nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again till the morrow, but
Captain Harville had promised them a visit in the evening; and he came,
bringing his friend also, which was more than had been expected, it having
been agreed that Captain Benwick had all the appearance of being
oppressed by the presence of so many strangers. He ventured among them
again, however, though his spirits certainly did not seem fit for the mirth of
the party in general.
While Captains Wentworth and Harville led the talk on one side of the
room, and by recurring to former days, supplied anecdotes in abundance to
occupy and entertain the others, it fell to Anne’s lot to be placed rather apart
with Captain Benwick; and a very good impulse of her nature obliged her to
begin an acquaintance with him. He was shy, and disposed to abstraction;
but the engaging mildness of her countenance, and gentleness of her
manners, soon had their effect; and Anne was well repaid the first trouble of

exertion. He was evidently a young man of considerable taste in reading,
though principally in poetry; and besides the persuasion of having given
him at least an evening’s indulgence in the discussion of subjects, which his
usual companions had probably no concern in, she had the hope of being of
real use to him in some suggestions as to the duty and benefit of struggling
against affliction, which had naturally grown out of their conversation. For,
though shy, he did not seem reserved; it had rather the appearance of
feelings glad to burst their usual restraints; and having talked of poetry, the
richness of the present age, and gone through a brief comparison of opinion
as to the first-rate poets, trying to ascertain whether Marmion or The Lady
of the Lake were to be preferred, and how ranked the Giaour and The Bride
of Abydos; and moreover, how the Giaour was to be pronounced, he
showed himself so intimately acquainted with all the tenderest songs of the
one poet, and all the impassioned descriptions of hopeless agony of the
other; he repeated, with such tremulous feeling, the various lines which
imaged a broken heart, or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, and looked so
entirely as if he meant to be understood, that she ventured to hope he did
not always read only poetry, and to say, that she thought it was the
misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed it
completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly
were the very feelings which ought to taste it but sparingly.
His looks shewing him not pained, but pleased with this allusion to his
situation, she was emboldened to go on; and feeling in herself the right of
seniority of mind, she ventured to recommend a larger allowance of prose
in his daily study; and on being requested to particularize, mentioned such
works of our best moralists, such collections of the finest letters, such
memoirs of characters of worth and suffering, as occurred to her at the
moment as calculated to rouse and fortify the mind by the highest precepts,
and the strongest examples of moral and religious endurances.
Captain Benwick listened attentively, and seemed grateful for the interest
implied; and though with a shake of the head, and sighs which declared his
little faith in the efficacy of any books on grief like his, noted down the
names of those she recommended, and promised to procure and read them.
When the evening was over, Anne could not but be amused at the idea of
her coming to Lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man
whom she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more

serious reflection, that, like many other great moralists and preachers, she
had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct would ill bear
examination.

CHAPTER XII.

Anne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the next
morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast. They went to the
sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine south-easterly breeze
was bringing in with all the grandeur which so flat a shore admitted. They
praised the morning; gloried in the sea; sympathized in the delight of the
fresh-feeling breeze—and were silent; till Henrietta suddenly began again
with—
“Oh! yes,—I am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the sea-
air always does good. There can be no doubt of its having been of the
greatest service to Dr Shirley, after his illness, last spring twelvemonth. He
declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month, did him more good than
all the medicine he took; and that being by the sea always makes him feel
young again. Now, I cannot help thinking it a pity that he does not live
entirely by the sea. I do think he had better leave Uppercross entirely, and
fix at Lyme. Do not you, Anne? Do not you agree with me, that it is the best
thing he could do, both for himself and Mrs Shirley? She has cousins here,
you know, and many acquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her,
and I am sure she would be glad to get to a place where she could have
medical attendance at hand, in case of his having another seizure. Indeed I
think it quite melancholy to have such excellent people as Dr and Mrs
Shirley, who have been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last
days in a place like Uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem
shut out from all the world. I wish his friends would propose it to him. I
really think they ought. And, as to procuring a dispensation, there could be
no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character. My only doubt is,
whether anything could persuade him to leave his parish. He is so very
strict and scrupulous in his notions; over-scrupulous I must say. Do not you
think, Anne, it is being over-scrupulous? Do not you think it is quite a
mistaken point of conscience, when a clergyman sacrifices his health for the

sake of duties, which may be just as well performed by another person?
And at Lyme too, only seventeen miles off, he would be near enough to
hear, if people thought there was anything to complain of.”
Anne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered
into the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of a young
lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower standard, for
what could be offered but general acquiescence? She said all that was
reasonable and proper on the business; felt the claims of Dr Shirley to
repose as she ought; saw how very desirable it was that he should have
some active, respectable young man as a resident curate, and was even
courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such resident curate’s being
married.
“I wish,” said Henrietta, very well pleased with her companion, “I wish
Lady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were intimate with Dr Shirley. I have
always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence with
everybody! I always look upon her as able to persuade a person to anything!
I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite afraid of her, because she
is so very clever; but I respect her amazingly, and wish we had such a
neighbour at Uppercross.”
Anne was amused by Henrietta’s manner of being grateful, and amused
also that the course of events and the new interests of Henrietta’s views
should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the Musgrove
family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and a wish that
such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects suddenly
ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards them.
They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be ready; but Louisa
recollecting immediately afterwards that she had something to procure at a
shop, invited them all to go back with her into the town. They were all at
her disposal.
When they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a
gentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew
back, and stopped to give them way. They ascended and passed him; and as
they passed, Anne’s face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a degree
of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of. She was
looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the
bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been

blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also
produced. It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in
manner) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked round at her
instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. He gave her a
momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, “That man
is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see something like Anne
Elliot again.”
After attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a little
longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing afterwards quickly
from her own chamber to their dining-room, had nearly run against the very
same gentleman, as he came out of an adjoining apartment. She had before
conjectured him to be a stranger like themselves, and determined that a
well-looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns as they
came back, should be his servant. Both master and man being in mourning
assisted the idea. It was now proved that he belonged to the same inn as
themselves; and this second meeting, short as it was, also proved again by
the gentleman’s looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness
and propriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good
manners. He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an
agreeable person. Anne felt that she should like to know who he was.
They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost
the first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to the
window. It was a gentleman’s carriage, a curricle, but only coming round
from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away. It
was driven by a servant in mourning.
The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might
compare it with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne’s curiosity,
and the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the
curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities
of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off.
“Ah!” cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne,
“it is the very man we passed.”
The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as
far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter
came into the room soon afterwards.

“Pray,” said Captain Wentworth, immediately, “can you tell us the name
of the gentleman who is just gone away?”
“Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night
from Sidmouth. Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at
dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London.”
“Elliot!” Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the
name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity of a
waiter.
“Bless me!” cried Mary; “it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr Elliot,
it must, indeed! Charles, Anne, must not it? In mourning, you see, just as
our Mr Elliot must be. How very extraordinary! In the very same inn with
us! Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot? my father’s next heir? Pray sir,”
turning to the waiter, “did not you hear, did not his servant say whether he
belonged to the Kellynch family?”
“No, ma’am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his
master was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day.”
“There! you see!” cried Mary in an ecstasy, “just as I said! Heir to Sir
Walter Elliot! I was sure that would come out, if it was so. Depend upon it,
that is a circumstance which his servants take care to publish, wherever he
goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary! I wish I had looked at
him more. I wish we had been aware in time, who it was, that he might have
been introduced to us. What a pity that we should not have been introduced
to each other! Do you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly looked
at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the
Elliot countenance, I wonder the arms did not strike me! Oh! the great-coat
was hanging over the panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am
sure, I should have observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not
been in mourning, one should have known him by the livery.”
“Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together,” said
Captain Wentworth, “we must consider it to be the arrangement of
Providence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin.”
When she could command Mary’s attention, Anne quietly tried to
convince her that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been
on such terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all
desirable.

At the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to have
seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was
undoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense. She would not,
upon any account, mention her having met with him the second time;
luckily Mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in
their earlier walk, but she would have felt quite ill-used by Anne’s having
actually run against him in the passage, and received his very polite
excuses, while she had never been near him at all; no, that cousinly little
interview must remain a perfect secret.
“Of course,” said Mary, “you will mention our seeing Mr Elliot, the next
time you write to Bath. I think my father certainly ought to hear of it; do
mention all about him.”
Anne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she
considered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what
ought to be suppressed. The offence which had been given her father, many
years back, she knew; Elizabeth’s particular share in it she suspected; and
that Mr Elliot’s idea always produced irritation in both was beyond a doubt.
Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of keeping up a slow and
unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell on Anne.
Breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and
Mrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take
their last walk about Lyme. They ought to be setting off for Uppercross by
one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together, and out of doors as long
as they could.
Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all
fairly in the street. Their conversation the preceding evening did not
disincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time,
talking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as before,
and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike of the merits
of either, till something occasioned an almost general change amongst their
party, and instead of Captain Benwick, she had Captain Harville by her
side.
“Miss Elliot,” said he, speaking rather low, “you have done a good deed
in making that poor fellow talk so much. I wish he could have such
company oftener. It is bad for him, I know, to be shut up as he is; but what
can we do? We cannot part.”

“No,” said Anne, “that I can easily believe to be impossible; but in time,
perhaps—we know what time does in every case of affliction, and you must
remember, Captain Harville, that your friend may yet be called a young
mourner—only last summer, I understand.”
“Ay, true enough,” (with a deep sigh) “only June.”
“And not known to him, perhaps, so soon.”
“Not till the first week of August, when he came home from the Cape,
just made into the Grappler. I was at Plymouth dreading to hear of him; he
sent in letters, but the Grappler was under orders for Portsmouth. There the
news must follow him, but who was to tell it? not I. I would as soon have
been run up to the yard-arm. Nobody could do it, but that good fellow”
(pointing to Captain Wentworth). “The Laconia had come into Plymouth the
week before; no danger of her being sent to sea again. He stood his chance
for the rest; wrote up for leave of absence, but without waiting the return,
travelled night and day till he got to Portsmouth, rowed off to the Grappler
that instant, and never left the poor fellow for a week. That’s what he did,
and nobody else could have saved poor James. You may think, Miss Elliot,
whether he is dear to us!”
Anne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much in
reply as her own feeling could accomplish, or as his seemed able to bear,
for he was too much affected to renew the subject, and when he spoke
again, it was of something totally different.
Mrs Harville’s giving it as her opinion that her husband would have quite
walking enough by the time he reached home, determined the direction of
all the party in what was to be their last walk; they would accompany them
to their door, and then return and set off themselves. By all their
calculations there was just time for this; but as they drew near the Cobb,
there was such a general wish to walk along it once more, all were so
inclined, and Louisa soon grew so determined, that the difference of a
quarter of an hour, it was found, would be no difference at all; so with all
the kind leave-taking, and all the kind interchange of invitations and
promises which may be imagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs
Harville at their own door, and still accompanied by Captain Benwick, who
seemed to cling to them to the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to
the Cobb.

Anne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her. Lord Byron’s
“dark blue seas” could not fail of being brought forward by their present
view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was
possible. It was soon drawn, perforce another way.
There was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb
pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower,
and all were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight,
excepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth.
In all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation was
delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less
willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however. She was safely down,
and instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down
again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he
reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, “I am determined I will:”
he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on
the pavement on the Lower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless! There was no
wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed
not, her face was like death. The horror of the moment to all who stood
around!
Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms,
looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence. “She
is dead! she is dead!” screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and
contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another
moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and
would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who
caught and supported her between them.
“Is there no one to help me?” were the first words which burst from
Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were
gone.
“Go to him, go to him,” cried Anne, “for heaven’s sake go to him. I can
support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her
temples; here are salts; take them, take them.”
Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging
himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up
and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that

Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering
against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony—
“Oh God! her father and mother!”
“A surgeon!” said Anne.
He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only
—“True, true, a surgeon this instant,” was darting away, when Anne eagerly
suggested—
“Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He
knows where a surgeon is to be found.”
Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a
moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned
the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother’s care, and was off for the
town with the utmost rapidity.
As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of
the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain
Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung
over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister,
to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical
agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give.
Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which
instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to
the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of
Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions.
“Anne, Anne,” cried Charles, “What is to be done next? What, in
heaven’s name, is to be done next?”
Captain Wentworth’s eyes were also turned towards her.
“Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently
to the inn.”
“Yes, yes, to the inn,” repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively
collected, and eager to be doing something. “I will carry her myself.
Musgrove, take care of the others.”
By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen
and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be
useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay,

two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To
some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for,
though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne
walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward,
treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very
lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along.
They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain
Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which
showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed
and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as Captain Harville
was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look
between him and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be taken
to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon’s arrival
there. They would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all
beneath his roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs Harville’s direction, was
conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance,
cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them.
Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without
apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service
to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same
room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return
of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer.
The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They
were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The
head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries
recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully.
That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few
hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy
of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent
ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may be conceived.
The tone, the look, with which “Thank God!” was uttered by Captain
Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of
him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms and
face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and
trying by prayer and reflection to calm them.
Louisa’s limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to the head.

It now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be
done, as to their general situation. They were now able to speak to each
other and consult. That Louisa must remain where she was, however
distressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such trouble, did
not admit a doubt. Her removal was impossible. The Harvilles silenced all
scruples; and, as much as they could, all gratitude. They had looked forward
and arranged everything before the others began to reflect. Captain
Benwick must give up his room to them, and get another bed elsewhere;
and the whole was settled. They were only concerned that the house could
accommodate no more; and yet perhaps, by “putting the children away in
the maid’s room, or swinging a cot somewhere,” they could hardly bear to
think of not finding room for two or three besides, supposing they might
wish to stay; though, with regard to any attendance on Miss Musgrove,
there need not be the least uneasiness in leaving her to Mrs Harville’s care
entirely. Mrs Harville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid,
who had lived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just
such another. Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by
day or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of feeling
irresistible.
Charles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the three in
consultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of perplexity
and terror. “Uppercross, the necessity of some one’s going to Uppercross;
the news to be conveyed; how it could be broken to Mr and Mrs Musgrove;
the lateness of the morning; an hour already gone since they ought to have
been off; the impossibility of being in tolerable time.” At first, they were
capable of nothing more to the purpose than such exclamations; but, after a
while, Captain Wentworth, exerting himself, said—
“We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. Every
minute is valuable. Some one must resolve on being off for Uppercross
instantly. Musgrove, either you or I must go.”
Charles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away. He would
be as little incumbrance as possible to Captain and Mrs Harville; but as to
leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor would. So far it was
decided; and Henrietta at first declared the same. She, however, was soon
persuaded to think differently. The usefulness of her staying! She who had
not been able to remain in Louisa’s room, or to look at her, without

sufferings which made her worse than helpless! She was forced to
acknowledge that she could do no good, yet was still unwilling to be away,
till, touched by the thought of her father and mother, she gave it up; she
consented, she was anxious to be at home.
The plan had reached this point, when Anne, coming quietly down from
Louisa’s room, could not but hear what followed, for the parlour door was
open.
“Then it is settled, Musgrove,” cried Captain Wentworth, “that you stay,
and that I take care of your sister home. But as to the rest, as to the others, if
one stays to assist Mrs Harville, I think it need be only one. Mrs Charles
Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if Anne will
stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne.”
She paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so
spoken of. The other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then
appeared.
“You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her;” cried he, turning
to her and speaking with a glow, and yet a gentleness, which seemed almost
restoring the past. She coloured deeply, and he recollected himself and
moved away. She expressed herself most willing, ready, happy to remain.
“It was what she had been thinking of, and wishing to be allowed to do. A
bed on the floor in Louisa’s room would be sufficient for her, if Mrs
Harville would but think so.”
One thing more, and all seemed arranged. Though it was rather desirable
that Mr and Mrs Musgrove should be previously alarmed by some share of
delay; yet the time required by the Uppercross horses to take them back,
would be a dreadful extension of suspense; and Captain Wentworth
proposed, and Charles Musgrove agreed, that it would be much better for
him to take a chaise from the inn, and leave Mr Musgrove’s carriage and
horses to be sent home the next morning early, when there would be the
farther advantage of sending an account of Louisa’s night.
Captain Wentworth now hurried off to get everything ready on his part,
and to be soon followed by the two ladies. When the plan was made known
to Mary, however, there was an end of all peace in it. She was so wretched
and so vehement, complained so much of injustice in being expected to go
away instead of Anne; Anne, who was nothing to Louisa, while she was her
sister, and had the best right to stay in Henrietta’s stead! Why was not she to

be as useful as Anne? And to go home without Charles, too, without her
husband! No, it was too unkind. And in short, she said more than her
husband could long withstand, and as none of the others could oppose when
he gave way, there was no help for it; the change of Mary for Anne was
inevitable.
Anne had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and ill-judging
claims of Mary; but so it must be, and they set off for the town, Charles
taking care of his sister, and Captain Benwick attending to her. She gave a
moment’s recollection, as they hurried along, to the little circumstances
which the same spots had witnessed earlier in the morning. There she had
listened to Henrietta’s schemes for Dr Shirley’s leaving Uppercross; farther
on, she had first seen Mr Elliot; a moment seemed all that could now be
given to any one but Louisa, or those who were wrapped up in her welfare.
Captain Benwick was most considerately attentive to her; and, united as
they all seemed by the distress of the day, she felt an increasing degree of
good-will towards him, and a pleasure even in thinking that it might,
perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance.
Captain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and a chaise and four in
waiting, stationed for their convenience in the lowest part of the street; but
his evident surprise and vexation at the substitution of one sister for the
other, the change in his countenance, the astonishment, the expressions
begun and suppressed, with which Charles was listened to, made but a
mortifying reception of Anne; or must at least convince her that she was
valued only as she could be useful to Louisa.
She endeavoured to be composed, and to be just. Without emulating the
feelings of an Emma towards her Henry, she would have attended on Louisa
with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and she hoped
he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink
unnecessarily from the office of a friend.
In the meanwhile she was in the carriage. He had handed them both in,
and placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these
circumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted Lyme.
How the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their manners; what
was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not foresee. It was all quite
natural, however. He was devoted to Henrietta; always turning towards her;
and when he spoke at all, always with the view of supporting her hopes and

raising her spirits. In general, his voice and manner were studiously calm.
To spare Henrietta from agitation seemed the governing principle. Once
only, when she had been grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to
the Cobb, bitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth,
as if wholly overcome—
“Don’t talk of it, don’t talk of it,” he cried. “Oh God! that I had not given
way to her at the fatal moment! Had I done as I ought! But so eager and so
resolute! Dear, sweet Louisa!”
Anne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now, to question the
justness of his own previous opinion as to the universal felicity and
advantage of firmness of character; and whether it might not strike him that,
like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its proportions and limits.
She thought it could scarcely escape him to feel that a persuadable temper
might sometimes be as much in favour of happiness as a very resolute
character.
They got on fast. Anne was astonished to recognise the same hills and the
same objects so soon. Their actual speed, heightened by some dread of the
conclusion, made the road appear but half as long as on the day before. It
was growing quite dusk, however, before they were in the neighbourhood of
Uppercross, and there had been total silence among them for some time,
Henrietta leaning back in the corner, with a shawl over her face, giving the
hope of her having cried herself to sleep; when, as they were going up their
last hill, Anne found herself all at once addressed by Captain Wentworth. In
a low, cautious voice, he said:—
“I have been considering what we had best do. She must not appear at
first. She could not stand it. I have been thinking whether you had not better
remain in the carriage with her, while I go in and break it to Mr and Mrs
Musgrove. Do you think this is a good plan?”
She did: he was satisfied, and said no more. But the remembrance of the
appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of deference
for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a sort of parting
proof, its value did not lessen.
When the distressing communication at Uppercross was over, and he had
seen the father and mother quite as composed as could be hoped, and the
daughter all the better for being with them, he announced his intention of

returning in the same carriage to Lyme; and when the horses were baited, he
was off.

(End of volume one.)

CHAPTER XIII.

The remainder of Anne’s time at Uppercross, comprehending only two
days, was spent entirely at the Mansion House; and she had the satisfaction
of knowing herself extremely useful there, both as an immediate
companion, and as assisting in all those arrangements for the future, which,
in Mr and Mrs Musgrove’s distressed state of spirits, would have been
difficulties.
They had an early account from Lyme the next morning. Louisa was
much the same. No symptoms worse than before had appeared. Charles
came a few hours afterwards, to bring a later and more particular account.
He was tolerably cheerful. A speedy cure must not be hoped, but everything
was going on as well as the nature of the case admitted. In speaking of the
Harvilles, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of their kindness,
especially of Mrs Harville’s exertions as a nurse. “She really left nothing for
Mary to do. He and Mary had been persuaded to go early to their inn last
night. Mary had been hysterical again this morning. When he came away,
she was going to walk out with Captain Benwick, which, he hoped, would
do her good. He almost wished she had been prevailed on to come home the
day before; but the truth was, that Mrs Harville left nothing for anybody to
do.”
Charles was to return to Lyme the same afternoon, and his father had at
first half a mind to go with him, but the ladies could not consent. It would
be going only to multiply trouble to the others, and increase his own
distress; and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon. A chaise
was sent for from Crewkherne, and Charles conveyed back a far more
useful person in the old nursery-maid of the family, one who having
brought up all the children, and seen the very last, the lingering and long-
petted Master Harry, sent to school after his brothers, was now living in her
deserted nursery to mend stockings and dress all the blains and bruises she
could get near her, and who, consequently, was only too happy in being

allowed to go and help nurse dear Miss Louisa. Vague wishes of getting
Sarah thither, had occurred before to Mrs Musgrove and Henrietta; but
without Anne, it would hardly have been resolved on, and found practicable
so soon.
They were indebted, the next day, to Charles Hayter, for all the minute
knowledge of Louisa, which it was so essential to obtain every twenty-four
hours. He made it his business to go to Lyme, and his account was still
encouraging. The intervals of sense and consciousness were believed to be
stronger. Every report agreed in Captain Wentworth’s appearing fixed in
Lyme.
Anne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which they all dreaded.
“What should they do without her? They were wretched comforters for one
another.” And so much was said in this way, that Anne thought she could
not do better than impart among them the general inclination to which she
was privy, and persuaded them all to go to Lyme at once. She had little
difficulty; it was soon determined that they would go; go to-morrow, fix
themselves at the inn, or get into lodgings, as it suited, and there remain till
dear Louisa could be moved. They must be taking off some trouble from the
good people she was with; they might at least relieve Mrs Harville from the
care of her own children; and in short, they were so happy in the decision,
that Anne was delighted with what she had done, and felt that she could not
spend her last morning at Uppercross better than in assisting their
preparations, and sending them off at an early hour, though her being left to
the solitary range of the house was the consequence.
She was the last, excepting the little boys at the cottage, she was the very
last, the only remaining one of all that had filled and animated both houses,
of all that had given Uppercross its cheerful character. A few days had made
a change indeed!
If Louisa recovered, it would all be well again. More than former
happiness would be restored. There could not be a doubt, to her mind there
was none, of what would follow her recovery. A few months hence, and the
room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive self, might be
filled again with all that was happy and gay, all that was glowing and bright
in prosperous love, all that was most unlike Anne Elliot!
An hour’s complete leisure for such reflections as these, on a dark
November day, a small thick rain almost blotting out the very few objects

ever to be discerned from the windows, was enough to make the sound of
Lady Russell’s carriage exceedingly welcome; and yet, though desirous to
be gone, she could not quit the Mansion House, or look an adieu to the
Cottage, with its black, dripping and comfortless veranda, or even notice
through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of the village, without
a saddened heart. Scenes had passed in Uppercross which made it precious.
It stood the record of many sensations of pain, once severe, but now
softened; and of some instances of relenting feeling, some breathings of
friendship and reconciliation, which could never be looked for again, and
which could never cease to be dear. She left it all behind her, all but the
recollection that such things had been.
Anne had never entered Kellynch since her quitting Lady Russell’s house
in September. It had not been necessary, and the few occasions of its being
possible for her to go to the Hall she had contrived to evade and escape
from. Her first return was to resume her place in the modern and elegant
apartments of the Lodge, and to gladden the eyes of its mistress.
There was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell’s joy in meeting her.
She knew who had been frequenting Uppercross. But happily, either Anne
was improved in plumpness and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so; and
Anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the amusement of
connecting them with the silent admiration of her cousin, and of hoping that
she was to be blessed with a second spring of youth and beauty.
When they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental
change. The subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving Kellynch,
and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to smother among the
Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest. She had lately lost
sight even of her father and sister and Bath. Their concerns had been sunk
under those of Uppercross; and when Lady Russell reverted to their former
hopes and fears, and spoke her satisfaction in the house in Camden Place,
which had been taken, and her regret that Mrs Clay should still be with
them, Anne would have been ashamed to have it known how much more
she was thinking of Lyme and Louisa Musgrove, and all her acquaintance
there; how much more interesting to her was the home and the friendship of
the Harvilles and Captain Benwick, than her own father’s house in Camden
Place, or her own sister’s intimacy with Mrs Clay. She was actually forced

to exert herself to meet Lady Russell with anything like the appearance of
equal solicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim on her.
There was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse on another
subject. They must speak of the accident at Lyme. Lady Russell had not
been arrived five minutes the day before, when a full account of the whole
had burst on her; but still it must be talked of, she must make enquiries, she
must regret the imprudence, lament the result, and Captain Wentworth’s
name must be mentioned by both. Anne was conscious of not doing it so
well as Lady Russell. She could not speak the name, and look straight
forward to Lady Russell’s eye, till she had adopted the expedient of telling
her briefly what she thought of the attachment between him and Louisa.
When this was told, his name distressed her no longer.
Lady Russell had only to listen composedly, and wish them happy, but
internally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt, that the
man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of the value
of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed by a Louisa
Musgrove.
The first three or four days passed most quietly, with no circumstance to
mark them excepting the receipt of a note or two from Lyme, which found
their way to Anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather improving
account of Louisa. At the end of that period, Lady Russell’s politeness
could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of the past became
in a decided tone, “I must call on Mrs Croft; I really must call upon her
soon. Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay a visit in that house?
It will be some trial to us both.”
Anne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she said, in
observing—
“I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your feelings
are less reconciled to the change than mine. By remaining in the
neighbourhood, I am become inured to it.”
She could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an
opinion of the Crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in his
tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the poor of the
best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed for the necessity
of the removal, she could not but in conscience feel that they were gone
who deserved not to stay, and that Kellynch Hall had passed into better

hands than its owners’. These convictions must unquestionably have their
own pain, and severe was its kind; but they precluded that pain which Lady
Russell would suffer in entering the house again, and returning through the
well-known apartments.
In such moments Anne had no power of saying to herself, “These rooms
ought to belong only to us. Oh, how fallen in their destination! How
unworthily occupied! An ancient family to be so driven away! Strangers
filling their place!” No, except when she thought of her mother, and
remembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she had no sigh of
that description to heave.
Mrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of
fancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving her in
that house, there was particular attention.
The sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing topic, and on
comparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it appeared that each lady
dated her intelligence from the same hour of yestermorn; that Captain
Wentworth had been in Kellynch yesterday (the first time since the
accident), had brought Anne the last note, which she had not been able to
trace the exact steps of; had staid a few hours and then returned again to
Lyme, and without any present intention of quitting it any more. He had
enquired after her, she found, particularly; had expressed his hope of Miss
Elliot’s not being the worse for her exertions, and had spoken of those
exertions as great. This was handsome, and gave her more pleasure than
almost anything else could have done.
As to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed only in one style by
a couple of steady, sensible women, whose judgements had to work on
ascertained events; and it was perfectly decided that it had been the
consequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence; that its effects
were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think, how long Miss
Musgrove’s recovery might yet be doubtful, and how liable she would still
remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter! The Admiral wound it up
summarily by exclaiming—
“Ay, a very bad business indeed. A new sort of way this, for a young
fellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress’s head, is not it, Miss
Elliot? This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!”

Admiral Croft’s manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady Russell,
but they delighted Anne. His goodness of heart and simplicity of character
were irresistible.
“Now, this must be very bad for you,” said he, suddenly rousing from a
little reverie, “to be coming and finding us here. I had not recollected it
before, I declare, but it must be very bad. But now, do not stand upon
ceremony. Get up and go over all the rooms in the house if you like it.”
“Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now.”
“Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the shrubbery at any
time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that
door. A good place is not it? But,” (checking himself), “you will not think it
a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler’s room. Ay, so it
always is, I believe. One man’s ways may be as good as another’s, but we
all like our own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would
be better for you to go about the house or not.”
Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.
“We have made very few changes either,” continued the Admiral, after
thinking a moment. “Very few. We told you about the laundry-door, at
Uppercross. That has been a very great improvement. The wonder was, how
any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it
did, so long! You will tell Sir Walter what we have done, and that Mr
Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had. Indeed, I
must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made
have been all very much for the better. My wife should have the credit of
them, however. I have done very little besides sending away some of the
large looking-glasses from my dressing-room, which was your father’s. A
very good man, and very much the gentleman I am sure: but I should think,
Miss Elliot,” (looking with serious reflection), “I should think he must be
rather a dressy man for his time of life. Such a number of looking-glasses!
oh Lord! there was no getting away from one’s self. So I got Sophy to lend
me a hand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug,
with my little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I
never go near.”
Anne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer, and
the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up the
subject again, to say—

“The next time you write to your good father, Miss Elliot, pray give him
my compliments and Mrs Croft’s, and say that we are settled here quite to
our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place. The breakfast-
room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only when the wind is
due north and blows hard, which may not happen three times a winter. And
take it altogether, now that we have been into most of the houses hereabouts
and can judge, there is not one that we like better than this. Pray say so,
with my compliments. He will be glad to hear it.”
Lady Russell and Mrs Croft were very well pleased with each other: but
the acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at
present; for when it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to be
going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in the north of the
county, and probably might not be at home again before Lady Russell
would be removing to Bath.
So ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Wentworth at Kellynch
Hall, or of seeing him in company with her friend. Everything was safe
enough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on
the subject.

CHAPTER XIV.

Though Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much longer after Mr
and Mrs Musgrove’s going than Anne conceived they could have been at all
wanted, they were yet the first of the family to be at home again; and as
soon as possible after their return to Uppercross they drove over to the
Lodge. They had left Louisa beginning to sit up; but her head, though clear,
was exceedingly weak, and her nerves susceptible to the highest extreme of
tenderness; and though she might be pronounced to be altogether doing
very well, it was still impossible to say when she might be able to bear the
removal home; and her father and mother, who must return in time to
receive their younger children for the Christmas holidays, had hardly a hope
of being allowed to bring her with them.
They had been all in lodgings together. Mrs Musgrove had got Mrs
Harville’s children away as much as she could, every possible supply from
Uppercross had been furnished, to lighten the inconvenience to the
Harvilles, while the Harvilles had been wanting them to come to dinner
every day; and in short, it seemed to have been only a struggle on each side
as to which should be most disinterested and hospitable.
Mary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evident by her
staying so long, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer. Charles Hayter
had been at Lyme oftener than suited her; and when they dined with the
Harvilles there had been only a maid-servant to wait, and at first Mrs
Harville had always given Mrs Musgrove precedence; but then, she had
received so very handsome an apology from her on finding out whose
daughter she was, and there had been so much going on every day, there
had been so many walks between their lodgings and the Harvilles, and she
had got books from the library, and changed them so often, that the balance
had certainly been much in favour of Lyme. She had been taken to
Charmouth too, and she had bathed, and she had gone to church, and there
were a great many more people to look at in the church at Lyme than at

Uppercross; and all this, joined to the sense of being so very useful, had
made really an agreeable fortnight.
Anne enquired after Captain Benwick. Mary’s face was clouded directly.
Charles laughed.
“Oh! Captain Benwick is very well, I believe, but he is a very odd young
man. I do not know what he would be at. We asked him to come home with
us for a day or two: Charles undertook to give him some shooting, and he
seemed quite delighted, and, for my part, I thought it was all settled; when
behold! on Tuesday night, he made a very awkward sort of excuse; ‘he
never shot’ and he had ‘been quite misunderstood,’ and he had promised
this and he had promised that, and the end of it was, I found, that he did not
mean to come. I suppose he was afraid of finding it dull; but upon my word
I should have thought we were lively enough at the Cottage for such a
heart-broken man as Captain Benwick.”
Charles laughed again and said, “Now Mary, you know very well how it
really was. It was all your doing,” (turning to Anne). “He fancied that if he
went with us, he should find you close by: he fancied everybody to be
living in Uppercross; and when he discovered that Lady Russell lived three
miles off, his heart failed him, and he had not courage to come. That is the
fact, upon my honour. Mary knows it is.”
But Mary did not give into it very graciously, whether from not
considering Captain Benwick entitled by birth and situation to be in love
with an Elliot, or from not wanting to believe Anne a greater attraction to
Uppercross than herself, must be left to be guessed. Anne’s good-will,
however, was not to be lessened by what she heard. She boldly
acknowledged herself flattered, and continued her enquiries.
“Oh! he talks of you,” cried Charles, “in such terms—” Mary interrupted
him. “I declare, Charles, I never heard him mention Anne twice all the time
I was there. I declare, Anne, he never talks of you at all.”
“No,” admitted Charles, “I do not know that he ever does, in a general
way; but however, it is a very clear thing that he admires you exceedingly.
His head is full of some books that he is reading upon your
recommendation, and he wants to talk to you about them; he has found out
something or other in one of them which he thinks—oh! I cannot pretend to
remember it, but it was something very fine—I overheard him telling
Henrietta all about it; and then ‘Miss Elliot’ was spoken of in the highest

terms! Now Mary, I declare it was so, I heard it myself, and you were in the
other room. ‘Elegance, sweetness, beauty.’ Oh! there was no end of Miss
Elliot’s charms.”
“And I am sure,” cried Mary, warmly, “it was a very little to his credit, if
he did. Miss Harville only died last June. Such a heart is very little worth
having; is it, Lady Russell? I am sure you will agree with me.”
“I must see Captain Benwick before I decide,” said Lady Russell,
smiling.
“And that you are very likely to do very soon, I can tell you, ma’am,”
said Charles. “Though he had not nerves for coming away with us, and
setting off again afterwards to pay a formal visit here, he will make his way
over to Kellynch one day by himself, you may depend on it. I told him the
distance and the road, and I told him of the church’s being so very well
worth seeing; for as he has a taste for those sort of things, I thought that
would be a good excuse, and he listened with all his understanding and
soul; and I am sure from his manner that you will have him calling here
soon. So, I give you notice, Lady Russell.”
“Any acquaintance of Anne’s will always be welcome to me,” was Lady
Russell’s kind answer.
“Oh! as to being Anne’s acquaintance,” said Mary, “I think he is rather
my acquaintance, for I have been seeing him every day this last fortnight.”
“Well, as your joint acquaintance, then, I shall be very happy to see
Captain Benwick.”
“You will not find anything very agreeable in him, I assure you, ma’am.
He is one of the dullest young men that ever lived. He has walked with me,
sometimes, from one end of the sands to the other, without saying a word.
He is not at all a well-bred young man. I am sure you will not like him.”
“There we differ, Mary,” said Anne. “I think Lady Russell would like
him. I think she would be so much pleased with his mind, that she would
very soon see no deficiency in his manner.”
“So do I, Anne,” said Charles. “I am sure Lady Russell would like him.
He is just Lady Russell’s sort. Give him a book, and he will read all day
long.”
“Yes, that he will!” exclaimed Mary, tauntingly. “He will sit poring over
his book, and not know when a person speaks to him, or when one drops

one’s scissors, or anything that happens. Do you think Lady Russell would
like that?”
Lady Russell could not help laughing. “Upon my word,” said she, “I
should not have supposed that my opinion of any one could have admitted
of such difference of conjecture, steady and matter of fact as I may call
myself. I have really a curiosity to see the person who can give occasion to
such directly opposite notions. I wish he may be induced to call here. And
when he does, Mary, you may depend upon hearing my opinion; but I am
determined not to judge him beforehand.”
“You will not like him, I will answer for it.”
Lady Russell began talking of something else. Mary spoke with
animation of their meeting with, or rather missing, Mr Elliot so
extraordinarily.
“He is a man,” said Lady Russell, “whom I have no wish to see. His
declining to be on cordial terms with the head of his family, has left a very
strong impression in his disfavour with me.”
This decision checked Mary’s eagerness, and stopped her short in the
midst of the Elliot countenance.
With regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne hazarded no enquiries,
there was voluntary communication sufficient. His spirits had been greatly
recovering lately as might be expected. As Louisa improved, he had
improved, and he was now quite a different creature from what he had been
the first week. He had not seen Louisa; and was so extremely fearful of any
ill consequence to her from an interview, that he did not press for it at all;
and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan of going away for a week or ten
days, till her head was stronger. He had talked of going down to Plymouth
for a week, and wanted to persuade Captain Benwick to go with him; but,
as Charles maintained to the last, Captain Benwick seemed much more
disposed to ride over to Kellynch.
There can be no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne were both
occasionally thinking of Captain Benwick, from this time. Lady Russell
could not hear the door-bell without feeling that it might be his herald; nor
could Anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her father’s
grounds, or any visit of charity in the village, without wondering whether
she might see him or hear of him. Captain Benwick came not, however. He
was either less disposed for it than Charles had imagined, or he was too shy;

and after giving him a week’s indulgence, Lady Russell determined him to
be unworthy of the interest which he had been beginning to excite.
The Musgroves came back to receive their happy boys and girls from
school, bringing with them Mrs Harville’s little children, to improve the
noise of Uppercross, and lessen that of Lyme. Henrietta remained with
Louisa; but all the rest of the family were again in their usual quarters.
Lady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them once, when Anne
could not but feel that Uppercross was already quite alive again. Though
neither Henrietta, nor Louisa, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain Wentworth
were there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could be wished to
the last state she had seen it in.
Immediately surrounding Mrs Musgrove were the little Harvilles, whom
she was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from the
Cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them. On one side was a table occupied
by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper; and on the other
were tressels and trays, bending under the weight of brawn and cold pies,
where riotous boys were holding high revel; the whole completed by a
roaring Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be heard, in spite of all
the noise of the others. Charles and Mary also came in, of course, during
their visit, and Mr Musgrove made a point of paying his respects to Lady
Russell, and sat down close to her for ten minutes, talking with a very
raised voice, but from the clamour of the children on his knees, generally in
vain. It was a fine family-piece.
Anne, judging from her own temperament, would have deemed such a
domestic hurricane a bad restorative of the nerves, which Louisa’s illness
must have so greatly shaken. But Mrs Musgrove, who got Anne near her on
purpose to thank her most cordially, again and again, for all her attentions to
them, concluded a short recapitulation of what she had suffered herself by
observing, with a happy glance round the room, that after all she had gone
through, nothing was so likely to do her good as a little quiet cheerfulness at
home.
Louisa was now recovering apace. Her mother could even think of her
being able to join their party at home, before her brothers and sisters went
to school again. The Harvilles had promised to come with her and stay at
Uppercross, whenever she returned. Captain Wentworth was gone, for the
present, to see his brother in Shropshire.

“I hope I shall remember, in future,” said Lady Russell, as soon as they
were reseated in the carriage, “not to call at Uppercross in the Christmas
holidays.”
Everybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters; and
sounds are quite innoxious, or most distressing, by their sort rather than
their quantity. When Lady Russell not long afterwards, was entering Bath
on a wet afternoon, and driving through the long course of streets from the
Old Bridge to Camden Place, amidst the dash of other carriages, the heavy
rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of newspapermen, muffin-men and
milkmen, and the ceaseless clink of pattens, she made no complaint. No,
these were noises which belonged to the winter pleasures; her spirits rose
under their influence; and like Mrs Musgrove, she was feeling, though not
saying, that after being long in the country, nothing could be so good for her
as a little quiet cheerfulness.
Anne did not share these feelings. She persisted in a very determined,
though very silent disinclination for Bath; caught the first dim view of the
extensive buildings, smoking in rain, without any wish of seeing them
better; felt their progress through the streets to be, however disagreeable,
yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see her when she arrived? And
looked back, with fond regret, to the bustles of Uppercross and the
seclusion of Kellynch.
Elizabeth’s last letter had communicated a piece of news of some
interest. Mr Elliot was in Bath. He had called in Camden Place; had called a
second time, a third; had been pointedly attentive. If Elizabeth and her
father did not deceive themselves, had been taking much pains to seek the
acquaintance, and proclaim the value of the connection, as he had formerly
taken pains to shew neglect. This was very wonderful if it were true; and
Lady Russell was in a state of very agreeable curiosity and perplexity about
Mr Elliot, already recanting the sentiment she had so lately expressed to
Mary, of his being “a man whom she had no wish to see.” She had a great
wish to see him. If he really sought to reconcile himself like a dutiful
branch, he must be forgiven for having dismembered himself from the
paternal tree.
Anne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circumstance, but she felt
that she would rather see Mr Elliot again than not, which was more than she
could say for many other persons in Bath.

She was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell then drove to her
own lodgings, in Rivers Street.

CHAPTER XV.

Sir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place, a lofty
dignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence; and both he and
Elizabeth were settled there, much to their satisfaction.
Anne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of
many months, and anxiously saying to herself, “Oh! when shall I leave you
again?” A degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome she
received, did her good. Her father and sister were glad to see her, for the
sake of shewing her the house and furniture, and met her with kindness. Her
making a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was noticed as an
advantage.
Mrs Clay was very pleasant, and very smiling, but her courtesies and
smiles were more a matter of course. Anne had always felt that she would
pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complaisance of the others
was unlooked for. They were evidently in excellent spirits, and she was
soon to listen to the causes. They had no inclination to listen to her. After
laying out for some compliments of being deeply regretted in their old
neighbourhood, which Anne could not pay, they had only a few faint
enquiries to make, before the talk must be all their own. Uppercross excited
no interest, Kellynch very little: it was all Bath.
They had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath more than answered their
expectations in every respect. Their house was undoubtedly the best in
Camden Place; their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages over all
the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the superiority was
not less in the style of the fitting-up, or the taste of the furniture. Their
acquaintance was exceedingly sought after. Everybody was wanting to visit
them. They had drawn back from many introductions, and still were
perpetually having cards left by people of whom they knew nothing.

Here were funds of enjoyment. Could Anne wonder that her father and
sister were happy? She might not wonder, but she must sigh that her father
should feel no degradation in his change, should see nothing to regret in the
duties and dignity of the resident landholder, should find so much to be vain
of in the littlenesses of a town; and she must sigh, and smile, and wonder
too, as Elizabeth threw open the folding-doors and walked with exultation
from one drawing-room to the other, boasting of their space; at the
possibility of that woman, who had been mistress of Kellynch Hall, finding
extent to be proud of between two walls, perhaps thirty feet asunder.
But this was not all which they had to make them happy. They had Mr
Elliot too. Anne had a great deal to hear of Mr Elliot. He was not only
pardoned, they were delighted with him. He had been in Bath about a
fortnight; (he had passed through Bath in November, in his way to London,
when the intelligence of Sir Walter’s being settled there had of course
reached him, though only twenty-four hours in the place, but he had not
been able to avail himself of it;) but he had now been a fortnight in Bath,
and his first object on arriving, had been to leave his card in Camden Place,
following it up by such assiduous endeavours to meet, and when they did
meet, by such great openness of conduct, such readiness to apologize for
the past, such solicitude to be received as a relation again, that their former
good understanding was completely re-established.
They had not a fault to find in him. He had explained away all the
appearance of neglect on his own side. It had originated in misapprehension
entirely. He had never had an idea of throwing himself off; he had feared
that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and delicacy had kept him silent.
Upon the hint of having spoken disrespectfully or carelessly of the family
and the family honours, he was quite indignant. He, who had ever boasted
of being an Elliot, and whose feelings, as to connection, were only too strict
to suit the unfeudal tone of the present day. He was astonished, indeed, but
his character and general conduct must refute it. He could refer Sir Walter
to all who knew him; and certainly, the pains he had been taking on this, the
first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the footing of a relation
and heir-presumptive, was a strong proof of his opinions on the subject.
The circumstances of his marriage, too, were found to admit of much
extenuation. This was an article not to be entered on by himself; but a very
intimate friend of his, a Colonel Wallis, a highly respectable man, perfectly

the gentleman, (and not an ill-looking man, Sir Walter added), who was
living in very good style in Marlborough Buildings, and had, at his own
particular request, been admitted to their acquaintance through Mr Elliot,
had mentioned one or two things relative to the marriage, which made a
material difference in the discredit of it.
Colonel Wallis had known Mr Elliot long, had been well acquainted also
with his wife, had perfectly understood the whole story. She was certainly
not a woman of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich, and
excessively in love with his friend. There had been the charm. She had
sought him. Without that attraction, not all her money would have tempted
Elliot, and Sir Walter was, moreover, assured of her having been a very fine
woman. Here was a great deal to soften the business. A very fine woman
with a large fortune, in love with him! Sir Walter seemed to admit it as
complete apology; and though Elizabeth could not see the circumstance in
quite so favourable a light, she allowed it be a great extenuation.
Mr Elliot had called repeatedly, had dined with them once, evidently
delighted by the distinction of being asked, for they gave no dinners in
general; delighted, in short, by every proof of cousinly notice, and placing
his whole happiness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place.
Anne listened, but without quite understanding it. Allowances, large
allowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke. She
heard it all under embellishment. All that sounded extravagant or irrational
in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin but in the
language of the relators. Still, however, she had the sensation of there being
something more than immediately appeared, in Mr Elliot’s wishing, after an
interval of so many years, to be well received by them. In a worldly view,
he had nothing to gain by being on terms with Sir Walter; nothing to risk by
a state of variance. In all probability he was already the richer of the two,
and the Kellynch estate would as surely be his hereafter as the title. A
sensible man, and he had looked like a very sensible man, why should it be
an object to him? She could only offer one solution; it was, perhaps, for
Elizabeth’s sake. There might really have been a liking formerly, though
convenience and accident had drawn him a different way; and now that he
could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay his addresses to her.
Elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with well-bred, elegant manners,
and her character might never have been penetrated by Mr Elliot, knowing

her but in public, and when very young himself. How her temper and
understanding might bear the investigation of his present keener time of life
was another concern and rather a fearful one. Most earnestly did she wish
that he might not be too nice, or too observant if Elizabeth were his object;
and that Elizabeth was disposed to believe herself so, and that her friend
Mrs Clay was encouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or two
between them, while Mr Elliot’s frequent visits were talked of.
Anne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at Lyme, but without
being much attended to. “Oh! yes, perhaps, it had been Mr Elliot. They did
not know. It might be him, perhaps.” They could not listen to her
description of him. They were describing him themselves; Sir Walter
especially. He did justice to his very gentlemanlike appearance, his air of
elegance and fashion, his good shaped face, his sensible eye; but, at the
same time, “must lament his being very much under-hung, a defect which
time seemed to have increased; nor could he pretend to say that ten years
had not altered almost every feature for the worse. Mr Elliot appeared to
think that he (Sir Walter) was looking exactly as he had done when they last
parted;” but Sir Walter had “not been able to return the compliment entirely,
which had embarrassed him. He did not mean to complain, however. Mr
Elliot was better to look at than most men, and he had no objection to being
seen with him anywhere.”
Mr Elliot, and his friends in Marlborough Buildings, were talked of the
whole evening. “Colonel Wallis had been so impatient to be introduced to
them! and Mr Elliot so anxious that he should!” and there was a Mrs Wallis,
at present known only to them by description, as she was in daily
expectation of her confinement; but Mr Elliot spoke of her as “a most
charming woman, quite worthy of being known in Camden Place,” and as
soon as she recovered they were to be acquainted. Sir Walter thought much
of Mrs Wallis; she was said to be an excessively pretty woman, beautiful.
“He longed to see her. He hoped she might make some amends for the
many very plain faces he was continually passing in the streets. The worst
of Bath was the number of its plain women. He did not mean to say that
there were no pretty women, but the number of the plain was out of all
proportion. He had frequently observed, as he walked, that one handsome
face would be followed by thirty, or five-and-thirty frights; and once, as he
had stood in a shop on Bond Street, he had counted eighty-seven women go
by, one after another, without there being a tolerable face among them. It

had been a frosty morning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one
woman in a thousand could stand the test of. But still, there certainly were a
dreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath; and as for the men! they were
infinitely worse. Such scarecrows as the streets were full of! It was evident
how little the women were used to the sight of anything tolerable, by the
effect which a man of decent appearance produced. He had never walked
anywhere arm-in-arm with Colonel Wallis (who was a fine military figure,
though sandy-haired) without observing that every woman’s eye was upon
him; every woman’s eye was sure to be upon Colonel Wallis.” Modest Sir
Walter! He was not allowed to escape, however. His daughter and Mrs Clay
united in hinting that Colonel Wallis’s companion might have as good a
figure as Colonel Wallis, and certainly was not sandy-haired.
“How is Mary looking?” said Sir Walter, in the height of his good
humour. “The last time I saw her she had a red nose, but I hope that may not
happen every day.”
“Oh! no, that must have been quite accidental. In general she has been in
very good health and very good looks since Michaelmas.”
“If I thought it would not tempt her to go out in sharp winds, and grow
coarse, I would send her a new hat and pelisse.”
Anne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a
gown, or a cap, would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the
door suspended everything. “A knock at the door! and so late! It was ten
o’clock. Could it be Mr Elliot? They knew he was to dine in Lansdown
Crescent. It was possible that he might stop in his way home to ask them
how they did. They could think of no one else. Mrs Clay decidedly thought
it Mr Elliot’s knock.” Mrs Clay was right. With all the state which a butler
and foot-boy could give, Mr Elliot was ushered into the room.
It was the same, the very same man, with no difference but of dress.
Anne drew a little back, while the others received his compliments, and her
sister his apologies for calling at so unusual an hour, but “he could not be so
near without wishing to know that neither she nor her friend had taken cold
the day before,” &c. &c.; which was all as politely done, and as politely
taken, as possible, but her part must follow then. Sir Walter talked of his
youngest daughter; “Mr Elliot must give him leave to present him to his
youngest daughter” (there was no occasion for remembering Mary); and
Anne, smiling and blushing, very becomingly shewed to Mr Elliot the

pretty features which he had by no means forgotten, and instantly saw, with
amusement at his little start of surprise, that he had not been at all aware of
who she was. He looked completely astonished, but not more astonished
than pleased; his eyes brightened! and with the most perfect alacrity he
welcomed the relationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received
as an acquaintance already. He was quite as good-looking as he had
appeared at Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners
were so exactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly
agreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one person’s
manners. They were not the same, but they were, perhaps, equally good.
He sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much.
There could be no doubt of his being a sensible man. Ten minutes were
enough to certify that. His tone, his expressions, his choice of subject, his
knowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a sensible, discerning
mind. As soon as he could, he began to talk to her of Lyme, wanting to
compare opinions respecting the place, but especially wanting to speak of
the circumstance of their happening to be guests in the same inn at the same
time; to give his own route, understand something of hers, and regret that he
should have lost such an opportunity of paying his respects to her. She gave
him a short account of her party and business at Lyme. His regret increased
as he listened. He had spent his whole solitary evening in the room
adjoining theirs; had heard voices, mirth continually; thought they must be
a most delightful set of people, longed to be with them, but certainly
without the smallest suspicion of his possessing the shadow of a right to
introduce himself. If he had but asked who the party were! The name of
Musgrove would have told him enough. “Well, it would serve to cure him
of an absurd practice of never asking a question at an inn, which he had
adopted, when quite a young man, on the principle of its being very
ungenteel to be curious.”
“The notions of a young man of one or two and twenty,” said he, “as to
what is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more absurd,
I believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world. The folly of the
means they often employ is only to be equalled by the folly of what they
have in view.”
But he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne alone: he knew it;
he was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at intervals

that he could return to Lyme.
His enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she
had been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place. Having alluded
to “an accident,” he must hear the whole. When he questioned, Sir Walter
and Elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in their manner of
doing it could not be unfelt. She could only compare Mr Elliot to Lady
Russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had passed, and in the
degree of concern for what she must have suffered in witnessing it.
He staid an hour with them. The elegant little clock on the mantel-piece
had struck “eleven with its silver sounds,” and the watchman was beginning
to be heard at a distance telling the same tale, before Mr Elliot or any of
them seemed to feel that he had been there long.
Anne could not have supposed it possible that her first evening in
Camden Place could have passed so well!

CHAPTER XVI.

There was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have
been more thankful to ascertain even than Mr Elliot’s being in love with
Elizabeth, which was, her father’s not being in love with Mrs Clay; and she
was very far from easy about it, when she had been at home a few hours.
On going down to breakfast the next morning, she found there had just been
a decent pretence on the lady’s side of meaning to leave them. She could
imagine Mrs Clay to have said, that “now Miss Anne was come, she could
not suppose herself at all wanted;” for Elizabeth was replying in a sort of
whisper, “That must not be any reason, indeed. I assure you I feel it none.
She is nothing to me, compared with you;” and she was in full time to hear
her father say, “My dear madam, this must not be. As yet, you have seen
nothing of Bath. You have been here only to be useful. You must not run
away from us now. You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs Wallis, the
beautiful Mrs Wallis. To your fine mind, I well know the sight of beauty is a
real gratification.”
He spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne was not surprised to
see Mrs Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth and herself. Her countenance,
perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise of the fine mind
did not appear to excite a thought in her sister. The lady could not but yield
to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay.
In the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be
alone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he
thought her “less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her
complexion, greatly improved; clearer, fresher. Had she been using any
thing in particular?” “No, nothing.” “Merely Gowland,” he supposed. “No,
nothing at all.” “Ha! he was surprised at that;” and added, “certainly you
cannot do better than to continue as you are; you cannot be better than well;
or I should recommend Gowland, the constant use of Gowland, during the

spring months. Mrs Clay has been using it at my recommendation, and you
see what it has done for her. You see how it has carried away her freckles.”
If Elizabeth could but have heard this! Such personal praise might have
struck her, especially as it did not appear to Anne that the freckles were at
all lessened. But everything must take its chance. The evil of a marriage
would be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also to marry. As for herself,
she might always command a home with Lady Russell.
Lady Russell’s composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial
on this point, in her intercourse in Camden Place. The sight of Mrs Clay in
such favour, and of Anne so overlooked, was a perpetual provocation to her
there; and vexed her as much when she was away, as a person in Bath who
drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and has a very large
acquaintance, has time to be vexed.
As Mr Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more
indifferent, towards the others. His manners were an immediate
recommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully
supporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne, almost
ready to exclaim, “Can this be Mr Elliot?” and could not seriously picture
to herself a more agreeable or estimable man. Everything united in him;
good understanding, correct opinions, knowledge of the world, and a warm
heart. He had strong feelings of family attachment and family honour,
without pride or weakness; he lived with the liberality of a man of fortune,
without display; he judged for himself in everything essential, without
defying public opinion in any point of worldly decorum. He was steady,
observant, moderate, candid; never run away with by spirits or by
selfishness, which fancied itself strong feeling; and yet, with a sensibility to
what was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the felicities of domestic
life, which characters of fancied enthusiasm and violent agitation seldom
really possess. She was sure that he had not been happy in marriage.
Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it; but it had been no
unhappiness to sour his mind, nor (she began pretty soon to suspect) to
prevent his thinking of a second choice. Her satisfaction in Mr Elliot
outweighed all the plague of Mrs Clay.
It was now some years since Anne had begun to learn that she and her
excellent friend could sometimes think differently; and it did not surprise
her, therefore, that Lady Russell should see nothing suspicious or

inconsistent, nothing to require more motives than appeared, in Mr Elliot’s
great desire of a reconciliation. In Lady Russell’s view, it was perfectly
natural that Mr Elliot, at a mature time of life, should feel it a most
desirable object, and what would very generally recommend him among all
sensible people, to be on good terms with the head of his family; the
simplest process in the world of time upon a head naturally clear, and only
erring in the heyday of youth. Anne presumed, however, still to smile about
it, and at last to mention “Elizabeth.” Lady Russell listened, and looked,
and made only this cautious reply:—“Elizabeth! very well; time will
explain.”
It was a reference to the future, which Anne, after a little observation, felt
she must submit to. She could determine nothing at present. In that house
Elizabeth must be first; and she was in the habit of such general observance
as “Miss Elliot,” that any particularity of attention seemed almost
impossible. Mr Elliot, too, it must be remembered, had not been a widower
seven months. A little delay on his side might be very excusable. In fact,
Anne could never see the crape round his hat, without fearing that she was
the inexcusable one, in attributing to him such imaginations; for though his
marriage had not been very happy, still it had existed so many years that she
could not comprehend a very rapid recovery from the awful impression of
its being dissolved.
However it might end, he was without any question their pleasantest
acquaintance in Bath: she saw nobody equal to him; and it was a great
indulgence now and then to talk to him about Lyme, which he seemed to
have as lively a wish to see again, and to see more of, as herself. They went
through the particulars of their first meeting a great many times. He gave
her to understand that he had looked at her with some earnestness. She
knew it well; and she remembered another person’s look also.
They did not always think alike. His value for rank and connexion she
perceived was greater than hers. It was not merely complaisance, it must be
a liking to the cause, which made him enter warmly into her father and
sister’s solicitudes on a subject which she thought unworthy to excite them.
The Bath paper one morning announced the arrival of the Dowager
Viscountess Dalrymple, and her daughter, the Honourable Miss Carteret;
and all the comfort of No. —, Camden Place, was swept away for many
days; for the Dalrymples (in Anne’s opinion, most unfortunately) were

cousins of the Elliots; and the agony was how to introduce themselves
properly.
Anne had never seen her father and sister before in contact with nobility,
and she must acknowledge herself disappointed. She had hoped better
things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and was reduced
to form a wish which she had never foreseen; a wish that they had more
pride; for “our cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret;” “our cousins,
the Dalrymples,” sounded in her ears all day long.
Sir Walter had once been in company with the late viscount, but had
never seen any of the rest of the family; and the difficulties of the case arose
from there having been a suspension of all intercourse by letters of
ceremony, ever since the death of that said late viscount, when, in
consequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter’s at the same time, there
had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch. No letter of condolence had
been sent to Ireland. The neglect had been visited on the head of the sinner;
for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no letter of condolence was received
at Kellynch, and, consequently, there was but too much reason to apprehend
that the Dalrymples considered the relationship as closed. How to have this
anxious business set to rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the
question: and it was a question which, in a more rational manner, neither
Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot thought unimportant. “Family connexions were
always worth preserving, good company always worth seeking; Lady
Dalrymple had taken a house, for three months, in Laura Place, and would
be living in style. She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell
had heard her spoken of as a charming woman. It was very desirable that
the connexion should be renewed, if it could be done, without any
compromise of propriety on the side of the Elliots.”
Sir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a
very fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his right
honourable cousin. Neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot could admire the
letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three lines of scrawl from
the Dowager Viscountess. “She was very much honoured, and should be
happy in their acquaintance.” The toils of the business were over, the sweets
began. They visited in Laura Place, they had the cards of Dowager
Viscountess Dalrymple, and the Honourable Miss Carteret, to be arranged
wherever they might be most visible: and “Our cousins in Laura

Place,”—“Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret,” were talked of
to everybody.
Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been
very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they
created, but they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner,
accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name
of “a charming woman,” because she had a smile and a civil answer for
everybody. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so
awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for
her birth.
Lady Russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet “it
was an acquaintance worth having;” and when Anne ventured to speak her
opinion of them to Mr Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in
themselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good
company, as those who would collect good company around them, they had
their value. Anne smiled and said,
“My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever, well-
informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call
good company.”
“You are mistaken,” said he gently, “that is not good company; that is the
best. Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with
regard to education is not very nice. Birth and good manners are essential;
but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company; on
the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin Anne shakes her head. She is
not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin” (sitting down by her), “you
have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman I know;
but will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept
the society of those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages
of the connexion as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will
move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being
known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our
family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish
for.”
“Yes,” sighed Anne, “we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!”
then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added, “I
certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure

the acquaintance. I suppose” (smiling) “I have more pride than any of you;
but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the
relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of
perfect indifference to them.”
“Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London,
perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say: but in
Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing:
always acceptable as acquaintance.”
“Well,” said Anne, “I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome
which depends so entirely upon place.”
“I love your indignation,” said he; “it is very natural. But here you are in
Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the credit and dignity
which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk of being proud; I am
called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself otherwise; for
our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, I have no doubt,
though the kind may seem a little different. In one point, I am sure, my dear
cousin,” (he continued, speaking lower, though there was no one else in the
room) “in one point, I am sure, we must feel alike. We must feel that every
addition to your father’s society, among his equals or superiors, may be of
use in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him.”
He looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs Clay had been lately
occupying: a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and
though Anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride, she
was pleased with him for not liking Mrs Clay; and her conscience admitted
that his wishing to promote her father’s getting great acquaintance was
more than excusable in the view of defeating her.

CHAPTER XVII.

While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good
fortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very
different description.
She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there
being an old schoolfellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on her
attention of past kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs
Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her life when it
had been most valuable. Anne had gone unhappy to school, grieving for the
loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling her separation from
home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of strong sensibility and not high
spirits, must suffer at such a time; and Miss Hamilton, three years older
than herself, but still from the want of near relations and a settled home,
remaining another year at school, had been useful and good to her in a way
which had considerably lessened her misery, and could never be
remembered with indifference.
Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was said
to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had known of
her, till now that their governess’s account brought her situation forward in
a more decided but very different form.
She was a widow and poor. Her husband had been extravagant; and at his
death, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully involved. She
had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and in addition to these
distresses had been afflicted with a severe rheumatic fever, which, finally
settling in her legs, had made her for the present a cripple. She had come to
Bath on that account, and was now in lodgings near the hot baths, living in
a very humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant,
and of course almost excluded from society.

Their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from Miss
Elliot would give Mrs Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in going. She
mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she intended, at home. It
would excite no proper interest there. She only consulted Lady Russell, who
entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and was most happy to convey her
as near to Mrs Smith’s lodgings in Westgate Buildings, as Anne chose to be
taken.
The visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest in
each other more than re-kindled. The first ten minutes had its awkwardness
and its emotion. Twelve years were gone since they had parted, and each
presented a somewhat different person from what the other had imagined.
Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming, silent, unformed girl of
fifteen, to the elegant little woman of seven-and-twenty, with every beauty
except bloom, and with manners as consciously right as they were
invariably gentle; and twelve years had transformed the fine-looking, well-
grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow of health and confidence of
superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless widow, receiving the visit of her
former protegee as a favour; but all that was uncomfortable in the meeting
had soon passed away, and left only the interesting charm of remembering
former partialities and talking over old times.
Anne found in Mrs Smith the good sense and agreeable manners which
she had almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be
cheerful beyond her expectation. Neither the dissipations of the past—and
she had lived very much in the world—nor the restrictions of the present,
neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her
spirits.
In the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and Anne’s
astonishment increased. She could scarcely imagine a more cheerless
situation in itself than Mrs Smith’s. She had been very fond of her husband:
she had buried him. She had been used to affluence: it was gone. She had
no child to connect her with life and happiness again, no relations to assist
in the arrangement of perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest
supportable. Her accommodations were limited to a noisy parlour, and a
dark bedroom behind, with no possibility of moving from one to the other
without assistance, which there was only one servant in the house to afford,
and she never quitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath. Yet,

in spite of all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of
languor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment. How could
it be? She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined that this was
not a case of fortitude or of resignation only. A submissive spirit might be
patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here was
something more; here was that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be
comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding
employment which carried her out of herself, which was from nature alone.
It was the choicest gift of Heaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of
those instances in which, by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to
counterbalance almost every other want.
There had been a time, Mrs Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly
failed. She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her state on
first reaching Bath. Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable object; for she had
caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken possession of her lodgings
before she was again confined to her bed and suffering under severe and
constant pain; and all this among strangers, with the absolute necessity of
having a regular nurse, and finances at that moment particularly unfit to
meet any extraordinary expense. She had weathered it, however, and could
truly say that it had done her good. It had increased her comforts by making
her feel herself to be in good hands. She had seen too much of the world, to
expect sudden or disinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had
proved to her that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not
use her ill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of
her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in that
house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to attend her.
“And she,” said Mrs Smith, “besides nursing me most admirably, has really
proved an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I could use my hands she
taught me to knit, which has been a great amusement; and she put me in the
way of making these little thread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which
you always find me so busy about, and which supply me with the means of
doing a little good to one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood.
She had a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who
can afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise. She always takes
the right time for applying. Everybody’s heart is open, you know, when they
have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of
health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to speak. She is a

shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. Hers is a line for seeing human nature;
and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a companion,
make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who having only received
‘the best education in the world,’ know nothing worth attending to. Call it
gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour’s leisure to
bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining
and profitable: something that makes one know one’s species better. One
likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being
trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure
you, is a treat.”
Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied, “I can easily
believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are
intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as
they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that
they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance
that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before
them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude,
patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble
us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, “sometimes it may, though I fear
its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and there,
human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its
weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber: it is
selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one
hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world! and unfortunately”
(speaking low and tremulously) “there are so many who forget to think
seriously till it is almost too late.”
Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he
ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made
her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a
passing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon added
in a different tone—
“I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present, will
furnish much either to interest or edify me. She is only nursing Mrs Wallis
of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable
woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and

finery. I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis, however. She has plenty of
money, and I intend she shall buy all the high-priced things I have in hand
now.”
Anne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of such
a person was known in Camden Place. At last, it became necessary to speak
of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one morning from
Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple for the same
evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that evening in Westgate
Buildings. She was not sorry for the excuse. They were only asked, she was
sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at home by a bad cold, was glad
to make use of the relationship which had been so pressed on her; and she
declined on her own account with great alacrity—“She was engaged to
spend the evening with an old schoolfellow.” They were not much
interested in anything relative to Anne; but still there were questions enough
asked, to make it understood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth
was disdainful, and Sir Walter severe.
“Westgate Buildings!” said he, “and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be
visiting in Westgate Buildings? A Mrs Smith. A widow Mrs Smith; and who
was her husband? One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to be
met with everywhere. And what is her attraction? That she is old and sickly.
Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most extraordinary taste!
Everything that revolts other people, low company, paltry rooms, foul air,
disgusting associations are inviting to you. But surely you may put off this
old lady till to-morrow: she is not so near her end, I presume, but that she
may hope to see another day. What is her age? Forty?”
“No, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but I do not think I can put off my
engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will at
once suit her and myself. She goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and for
the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged.”
“But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?” asked
Elizabeth.
“She sees nothing to blame in it,” replied Anne; “on the contrary, she
approves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs Smith.”
“Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance
of a carriage drawn up near its pavement,” observed Sir Walter. “Sir Henry
Russell’s widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms, but still it

is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to convey a Miss
Elliot. A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings! A poor widow
barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs Smith, an every-
day Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the world, to be the chosen
friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred by her to her own family
connections among the nobility of England and Ireland! Mrs Smith! Such a
name!”
Mrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it
advisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did long
to say a little in defence of her friend’s not very dissimilar claims to theirs,
but her sense of personal respect to her father prevented her. She made no
reply. She left it to himself to recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only
widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no
surname of dignity.
Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she
heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. She had been
the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not only
been quite at her ladyship’s service themselves, but had actually been happy
to be employed by her in collecting others, and had been at the trouble of
inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr Elliot had made a point of
leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady Russell had fresh arranged all her
evening engagements in order to wait on her. Anne had the whole history of
all that such an evening could supply from Lady Russell. To her, its greatest
interest must be, in having been very much talked of between her friend and
Mr Elliot; in having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time
honoured for staying away in such a cause. Her kind, compassionate visits
to this old schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted
Mr Elliot. He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her
temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. He could meet even
Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be given to
understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so highly
rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations which
her friend meant to create.
Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot. She
was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his
deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which

would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave
him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She would not
speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the subject, she would
venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible
attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance, supposing such
attachment to be real and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent
exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.
“I am no match-maker, as you well know,” said Lady Russell, “being
much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and
calculations. I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his
addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there
would be every possibility of your being happy together. A most suitable
connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be a very happy
one.”
“Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I think
highly of him,” said Anne; “but we should not suit.”
Lady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, “I own that to be
able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Elliot,
to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother’s place,
succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as to all her
virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. You are your
mother’s self in countenance and disposition; and if I might be allowed to
fancy you such as she was, in situation and name, and home, presiding and
blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in being more highly
valued! My dearest Anne, it would give me more delight than is often felt at
my time of life!”
Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table, and,
leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings this
picture excited. For a few moments her imagination and her heart were
bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of having the
precious name of “Lady Elliot” first revived in herself; of being restored to
Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which
she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell said not another word,
willing to leave the matter to its own operation; and believing that, could
Mr Elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken for himself!—she
believed, in short, what Anne did not believe. The same image of Mr Elliot

speaking for himself brought Anne to composure again. The charm of
Kellynch and of “Lady Elliot” all faded away. She never could accept him.
And it was not only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one;
her judgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a case,
was against Mr Elliot.
Though they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be
satisfied that she really knew his character. That he was a sensible man, an
agreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to
judge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough. He
certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article of moral
duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been afraid to answer
for his conduct. She distrusted the past, if not the present. The names which
occasionally dropt of former associates, the allusions to former practices
and pursuits, suggested suspicions not favourable of what he had been. She
saw that there had been bad habits; that Sunday travelling had been a
common thing; that there had been a period of his life (and probably not a
short one) when he had been, at least, careless in all serious matters; and,
though he might now think very differently, who could answer for the true
sentiments of a clever, cautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair
character? How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly
cleansed?
Mr Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open. There was
never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil
or good of others. This, to Anne, was a decided imperfection. Her early
impressions were incurable. She prized the frank, the open-hearted, the
eager character beyond all others. Warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her
still. She felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of
those who sometimes looked or said a careless or a hasty thing, than of
those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped.
Mr Elliot was too generally agreeable. Various as were the tempers in her
father’s house, he pleased them all. He endured too well, stood too well
with every body. He had spoken to her with some degree of openness of
Mrs Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs Clay was about, and to
hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs Clay found him as agreeable as any body.
Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw
nothing to excite distrust. She could not imagine a man more exactly what

he ought to be than Mr Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter feeling than
the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved Anne in Kellynch
church, in the course of the following autumn.

CHAPTER XVIII.

It was the beginning of February; and Anne, having been a month in
Bath, was growing very eager for news from Uppercross and Lyme. She
wanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated. It was three
weeks since she had heard at all. She only knew that Henrietta was at home
again; and that Louisa, though considered to be recovering fast, was still in
Lyme; and she was thinking of them all very intently one evening, when a
thicker letter than usual from Mary was delivered to her; and, to quicken the
pleasure and surprise, with Admiral and Mrs Croft’s compliments.
The Crofts must be in Bath! A circumstance to interest her. They were
people whom her heart turned to very naturally.
“What is this?” cried Sir Walter. “The Crofts have arrived in Bath? The
Crofts who rent Kellynch? What have they brought you?”
“A letter from Uppercross Cottage, Sir.”
“Oh! those letters are convenient passports. They secure an introduction.
I should have visited Admiral Croft, however, at any rate. I know what is
due to my tenant.”
Anne could listen no longer; she could not even have told how the poor
Admiral’s complexion escaped; her letter engrossed her. It had been begun
several days back.

“February 1st.

“MY DEAR ANNE,
I make no apology for my silence, because I know how
little people think of letters in such a place as Bath. You
must be a great deal too happy to care for Uppercross,
which, as you well know, affords little to write about. We
have had a very dull Christmas; Mr and Mrs Musgrove have

not had one dinner party all the holidays. I do not reckon the
Hayters as anybody. The holidays, however, are over at last:
I believe no children ever had such long ones. I am sure I
had not. The house was cleared yesterday, except of the little
Harvilles; but you will be surprised to hear they have never
gone home. Mrs Harville must be an odd mother to part with
them so long. I do not understand it. They are not at all nice
children, in my opinion; but Mrs Musgrove seems to like
them quite as well, if not better, than her grandchildren.
What dreadful weather we have had! It may not be felt in
Bath, with your nice pavements; but in the country it is of
some consequence. I have not had a creature call on me
since the second week in January, except Charles Hayter,
who had been calling much oftener than was welcome.
Between ourselves, I think it a great pity Henrietta did not
remain at Lyme as long as Louisa; it would have kept her a
little out of his way. The carriage is gone to-day, to bring
Louisa and the Harvilles to-morrow. We are not asked to
dine with them, however, till the day after, Mrs Musgrove is
so afraid of her being fatigued by the journey, which is not
very likely, considering the care that will be taken of her;
and it would be much more convenient to me to dine there
to-morrow. I am glad you find Mr Elliot so agreeable, and
wish I could be acquainted with him too; but I have my
usual luck: I am always out of the way when any thing
desirable is going on; always the last of my family to be
noticed. What an immense time Mrs Clay has been staying
with Elizabeth! Does she never mean to go away? But
perhaps if she were to leave the room vacant, we might not
be invited. Let me know what you think of this. I do not
expect my children to be asked, you know. I can leave them
at the Great House very well, for a month or six weeks. I
have this moment heard that the Crofts are going to Bath
almost immediately; they think the Admiral gouty. Charles
heard it quite by chance; they have not had the civility to
give me any notice, or of offering to take anything. I do not
think they improve at all as neighbours. We see nothing of

them, and this is really an instance of gross inattention.
Charles joins me in love, and everything proper. Yours
affectionately,

“MARY M——.

“I am sorry to say that I am very far from well; and
Jemima has just told me that the butcher says there is a bad
sore-throat very much about. I dare say I shall catch it; and
my sore-throats, you know, are always worse than
anybody’s.”

So ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an envelope,
containing nearly as much more.

“I kept my letter open, that I might send you word how Louisa bore her
journey, and now I am extremely glad I did, having a great deal to add. In
the first place, I had a note from Mrs Croft yesterday, offering to convey
anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to me, just as
it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter as long as I like. The
Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely hope Bath will do him all
the good he wants. I shall be truly glad to have them back again. Our
neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant family. But now for Louisa. I
have something to communicate that will astonish you not a little. She and
the Harvilles came on Tuesday very safely, and in the evening we went to
ask her how she did, when we were rather surprised not to find Captain
Benwick of the party, for he had been invited as well as the Harvilles; and
what do you think was the reason? Neither more nor less than his being in
love with Louisa, and not choosing to venture to Uppercross till he had had
an answer from Mr Musgrove; for it was all settled between him and her
before she came away, and he had written to her father by Captain Harville.
True, upon my honour! Are not you astonished? I shall be surprised at least
if you ever received a hint of it, for I never did. Mrs Musgrove protests
solemnly that she knew nothing of the matter. We are all very well pleased,
however, for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain Wentworth, it is
infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr Musgrove has written his

consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day. Mrs Harville says her
husband feels a good deal on his poor sister’s account; but, however, Louisa
is a great favourite with both. Indeed, Mrs Harville and I quite agree that we
love her the better for having nursed her. Charles wonders what Captain
Wentworth will say; but if you remember, I never thought him attached to
Louisa; I never could see anything of it. And this is the end, you see, of
Captain Benwick’s being supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles
could take such a thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me. I
hope he will be more agreeable now. Certainly not a great match for Louisa
Musgrove, but a million times better than marrying among the Hayters.”

Mary need not have feared her sister’s being in any degree prepared for
the news. She had never in her life been more astonished. Captain Benwick
and Louisa Musgrove! It was almost too wonderful for belief, and it was
with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room, preserve an air of
calmness, and answer the common questions of the moment. Happily for
her, they were not many. Sir Walter wanted to know whether the Crofts
travelled with four horses, and whether they were likely to be situated in
such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss Elliot and himself to visit in; but
had little curiosity beyond.
“How is Mary?” said Elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer, “And
pray what brings the Crofts to Bath?”
“They come on the Admiral’s account. He is thought to be gouty.”
“Gout and decrepitude!” said Sir Walter. “Poor old gentleman.”
“Have they any acquaintance here?” asked Elizabeth.
“I do not know; but I can hardly suppose that, at Admiral Croft’s time of
life, and in his profession, he should not have many acquaintance in such a
place as this.”
“I suspect,” said Sir Walter coolly, “that Admiral Croft will be best
known in Bath as the renter of Kellynch Hall. Elizabeth, may we venture to
present him and his wife in Laura Place?”
“Oh, no! I think not. Situated as we are with Lady Dalrymple, cousins,
we ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she
might not approve. If we were not related, it would not signify; but as
cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours. We had better

leave the Crofts to find their own level. There are several odd-looking men
walking about here, who, I am told, are sailors. The Crofts will associate
with them.”
This was Sir Walter and Elizabeth’s share of interest in the letter; when
Mrs Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an enquiry after
Mrs Charles Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was at liberty.
In her own room, she tried to comprehend it. Well might Charles wonder
how Captain Wentworth would feel! Perhaps he had quitted the field, had
given Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her. She
could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin to ill usage
between him and his friend. She could not endure that such a friendship as
theirs should be severed unfairly.
Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! The high-spirited, joyous-
talking Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading,
Captain Benwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the
other. Their minds most dissimilar! Where could have been the attraction?
The answer soon presented itself. It had been in situation. They had been
thrown together several weeks; they had been living in the same small
family party: since Henrietta’s coming away, they must have been
depending almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering from
illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain Benwick was not
inconsolable. That was a point which Anne had not been able to avoid
suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as Mary,
from the present course of events, they served only to confirm the idea of
his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself. She did not
mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her vanity, than
Mary might have allowed. She was persuaded that any tolerably pleasing
young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for him would have
received the same compliment. He had an affectionate heart. He must love
somebody.
She saw no reason against their being happy. Louisa had fine naval
fervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike. He would gain
cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott and Lord
Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they had fallen in
love over poetry. The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned into a person of
literary taste, and sentimental reflection was amusing, but she had no doubt

of its being so. The day at Lyme, the fall from the Cobb, might influence
her health, her nerves, her courage, her character to the end of her life, as
thoroughly as it appeared to have influenced her fate.
The conclusion of the whole was, that if the woman who had been
sensible of Captain Wentworth’s merits could be allowed to prefer another
man, there was nothing in the engagement to excite lasting wonder; and if
Captain Wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly nothing to be regretted.
No, it was not regret which made Anne’s heart beat in spite of herself, and
brought the colour into her cheeks when she thought of Captain Wentworth
unshackled and free. She had some feelings which she was ashamed to
investigate. They were too much like joy, senseless joy!
She longed to see the Crofts; but when the meeting took place, it was
evident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them. The visit of
ceremony was paid and returned; and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned, and
Captain Benwick, too, without even half a smile.
The Crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in Gay Street, perfectly to
Sir Walter’s satisfaction. He was not at all ashamed of the acquaintance, and
did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about the Admiral, than the
Admiral ever thought or talked about him.
The Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they wished for, and
considered their intercourse with the Elliots as a mere matter of form, and
not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure. They brought with them
their country habit of being almost always together. He was ordered to walk
to keep off the gout, and Mrs Croft seemed to go shares with him in
everything, and to walk for her life to do him good. Anne saw them
wherever she went. Lady Russell took her out in her carriage almost every
morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never failed to see
them. Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most attractive picture of
happiness to her. She always watched them as long as she could, delighted
to fancy she understood what they might be talking of, as they walked along
in happy independence, or equally delighted to see the Admiral’s hearty
shake of the hand when he encountered an old friend, and observe their
eagerness of conversation when occasionally forming into a little knot of
the navy, Mrs Croft looking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers
around her.

Anne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be often walking
herself; but it so happened that one morning, about a week or ten days after
the Croft’s arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or her friend’s
carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone to Camden Place,
and in walking up Milsom Street she had the good fortune to meet with the
Admiral. He was standing by himself at a printshop window, with his hands
behind him, in earnest contemplation of some print, and she not only might
have passed him unseen, but was obliged to touch as well as address him
before she could catch his notice. When he did perceive and acknowledge
her, however, it was done with all his usual frankness and good humour.
“Ha! is it you? Thank you, thank you. This is treating me like a friend. Here
I am, you see, staring at a picture. I can never get by this shop without
stopping. But what a thing here is, by way of a boat! Do look at it. Did you
ever see the like? What queer fellows your fine painters must be, to think
that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless old cockleshell
as that? And yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it mightily at their ease,
and looking about them at the rocks and mountains, as if they were not to
be upset the next moment, which they certainly must be. I wonder where
that boat was built!” (laughing heartily); “I would not venture over a
horsepond in it. Well,” (turning away), “now, where are you bound? Can I
go anywhere for you, or with you? Can I be of any use?”
“None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure of your
company the little way our road lies together. I am going home.”
“That I will, with all my heart, and farther, too. Yes, yes we will have a
snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go along. There,
take my arm; that’s right; I do not feel comfortable if I have not a woman
there. Lord! what a boat it is!” taking a last look at the picture, as they
began to be in motion.
“Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?”
“Yes, I have, presently. But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I shall
only say, ‘How d’ye do?’ as we pass, however. I shall not stop. ‘How d’ye
do?’ Brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife. She, poor soul, is
tied by the leg. She has a blister on one of her heels, as large as a three-
shilling piece. If you look across the street, you will see Admiral Brand
coming down and his brother. Shabby fellows, both of them! I am glad they
are not on this side of the way. Sophy cannot bear them. They played me a

pitiful trick once: got away with some of my best men. I will tell you the
whole story another time. There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his
grandson. Look, he sees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my
wife. Ah! the peace has come too soon for that younker. Poor old Sir
Archibald! How do you like Bath, Miss Elliot? It suits us very well. We are
always meeting with some old friend or other; the streets full of them every
morning; sure to have plenty of chat; and then we get away from them all,
and shut ourselves in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and are as snug
as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at North Yarmouth
and Deal. We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I can tell you, for
putting us in mind of those we first had at North Yarmouth. The wind blows
through one of the cupboards just in the same way.”
When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for what
he had to communicate. She hoped when clear of Milsom Street to have her
curiosity gratified; but she was still obliged to wait, for the Admiral had
made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the greater space and
quiet of Belmont; and as she was not really Mrs Croft, she must let him
have his own way. As soon as they were fairly ascending Belmont, he began
—
“Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you. But first of
all, you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk about.
That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned for. The
Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to. Her Christian name: I
always forget her Christian name.”
Anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really
did; but now she could safely suggest the name of “Louisa.”
“Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name. I wish young ladies had
not such a number of fine Christian names. I should never be out if they
were all Sophys, or something of that sort. Well, this Miss Louisa, we all
thought, you know, was to marry Frederick. He was courting her week after
week. The only wonder was, what they could be waiting for, till the
business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear enough that they must
wait till her brain was set to right. But even then there was something odd
in their way of going on. Instead of staying at Lyme, he went off to
Plymouth, and then he went off to see Edward. When we came back from
Minehead he was gone down to Edward’s, and there he has been ever since.

We have seen nothing of him since November. Even Sophy could not
understand it. But now, the matter has taken the strangest turn of all; for this
young lady, the same Miss Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick,
is to marry James Benwick. You know James Benwick.”
“A little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick.”
“Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are married already, for
I do not know what they should wait for.”
“I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man,” said Anne,
“and I understand that he bears an excellent character.”
“Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick. He
is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad times
for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An excellent,
good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous officer too, which
is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does
not do him justice.”
“Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of spirit
from Captain Benwick’s manners. I thought them particularly pleasing, and
I will answer for it, they would generally please.”
“Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather too
piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality, Sophy and I
cannot help thinking Frederick’s manners better than his. There is
something about Frederick more to our taste.”
Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of
spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to
represent Captain Benwick’s manners as the very best that could possibly
be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, “I was not
entering into any comparison of the two friends,” but the Admiral
interrupted her with—
“And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it
from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which
he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon
the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross.”
This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore,
“I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain
Wentworth’s letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly uneasy. It did

seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa
Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side
equally, and without violence. I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of
an ill-used man.”
“Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from beginning to
end.”
Anne looked down to hide her smile.
“No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much
spirit for that. If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit she should
have him.”
“Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in Captain
Wentworth’s manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself ill-
used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without its being
absolutely said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship as has
subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be destroyed, or even
wounded, by a circumstance of this sort.”
“Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at all of that nature in
the letter. He does not give the least fling at Benwick; does not so much as
say, ‘I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for wondering at it.’ No, you
would not guess, from his way of writing, that he had ever thought of this
Miss (what’s her name?) for himself. He very handsomely hopes they will
be happy together; and there is nothing very unforgiving in that, I think.”
Anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to
convey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther. She
therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet attention,
and the Admiral had it all his own way.
“Poor Frederick!” said he at last. “Now he must begin all over again with
somebody else. I think we must get him to Bath. Sophy must write, and beg
him to come to Bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am sure. It would be of
no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other Miss Musgrove, I find, is
bespoke by her cousin, the young parson. Do not you think, Miss Elliot, we
had better try to get him to Bath?”

CHAPTER XIX.

While Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne, and expressing his
wish of getting Captain Wentworth to Bath, Captain Wentworth was already
on his way thither. Before Mrs Croft had written, he was arrived, and the
very next time Anne walked out, she saw him.
Mr Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs Clay. They were in
Milsom Street. It began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter
desirable for women, and quite enough to make it very desirable for Miss
Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady Dalrymple’s
carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance; she, Anne, and Mrs
Clay, therefore, turned into Molland’s, while Mr Elliot stepped to Lady
Dalrymple, to request her assistance. He soon joined them again,
successful, of course; Lady Dalrymple would be most happy to take them
home, and would call for them in a few minutes.
Her ladyship’s carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four
with any comfort. Miss Carteret was with her mother; consequently it was
not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three Camden Place
ladies. There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot. Whoever suffered
inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little time to settle
the point of civility between the other two. The rain was a mere trifle, and
Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with Mr Elliot. But the rain was
also a mere trifle to Mrs Clay; she would hardly allow it even to drop at all,
and her boots were so thick! much thicker than Miss Anne’s; and, in short,
her civility rendered her quite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr Elliot as
Anne could be, and it was discussed between them with a generosity so
polite and so determined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them;
Miss Elliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a little cold already, and Mr
Elliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin Anne’s boots were rather the
thickest.

It was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the
carriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat near
the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain Wentworth
walking down the street.
Her start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that she
was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and
absurd! For a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all confusion.
She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she found the
others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr Elliot (always obliging) just
setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs Clay’s.
She now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to see
if it rained. Why was she to suspect herself of another motive? Captain
Wentworth must be out of sight. She left her seat, she would go; one half of
her should not be always so much wiser than the other half, or always
suspecting the other of being worse than it was. She would see if it rained.
She was sent back, however, in a moment by the entrance of Captain
Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and ladies, evidently his
acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a little below Milsom Street.
He was more obviously struck and confused by the sight of her than she had
ever observed before; he looked quite red. For the first time, since their
renewed acquaintance, she felt that she was betraying the least sensibility of
the two. She had the advantage of him in the preparation of the last few
moments. All the overpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of
strong surprise were over with her. Still, however, she had enough to feel! It
was agitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery.
He spoke to her, and then turned away. The character of his manner was
embarrassment. She could not have called it either cold or friendly, or
anything so certainly as embarrassed.
After a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again.
Mutual enquiries on common subjects passed: neither of them, probably,
much the wiser for what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible of
his being less at ease than formerly. They had by dint of being so very much
together, got to speak to each other with a considerable portion of apparent
indifference and calmness; but he could not do it now. Time had changed
him, or Louisa had changed him. There was consciousness of some sort or
other. He looked very well, not as if he had been suffering in health or

spirits, and he talked of Uppercross, of the Musgroves, nay, even of Louisa,
and had even a momentary look of his own arch significance as he named
her; but yet it was Captain Wentworth not comfortable, not easy, not able to
feign that he was.
It did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that Elizabeth would
not know him. She saw that he saw Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw him, that
there was complete internal recognition on each side; she was convinced
that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance, expecting it, and
she had the pain of seeing her sister turn away with unalterable coldness.
Lady Dalrymple’s carriage, for which Miss Elliot was growing very
impatient, now drew up; the servant came in to announce it. It was
beginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a bustle, and a
talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop understand that
Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot. At last Miss Elliot and
her friend, unattended but by the servant, (for there was no cousin returned),
were walking off; and Captain Wentworth, watching them, turned again to
Anne, and by manner, rather than words, was offering his services to her.
“I am much obliged to you,” was her answer, “but I am not going with
them. The carriage would not accommodate so many. I walk: I prefer
walking.”
“But it rains.”
“Oh! very little. Nothing that I regard.”
After a moment’s pause he said: “Though I came only yesterday, I have
equipped myself properly for Bath already, you see,” (pointing to a new
umbrella); “I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to walk;
though I think it would be more prudent to let me get you a chair.”
She was very much obliged to him, but declined it all, repeating her
conviction, that the rain would come to nothing at present, and adding, “I
am only waiting for Mr Elliot. He will be here in a moment, I am sure.”
She had hardly spoken the words when Mr Elliot walked in. Captain
Wentworth recollected him perfectly. There was no difference between him
and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as she
passed, except in the air and look and manner of the privileged relation and
friend. He came in with eagerness, appeared to see and think only of her,
apologised for his stay, was grieved to have kept her waiting, and anxious to

get her away without further loss of time and before the rain increased; and
in another moment they walked off together, her arm under his, a gentle and
embarrassed glance, and a “Good morning to you!” being all that she had
time for, as she passed away.
As soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain Wentworth’s
party began talking of them.
“Mr Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy?”
“Oh! no, that is clear enough. One can guess what will happen there. He
is always with them; half lives in the family, I believe. What a very good-
looking man!”
“Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once at the Wallises, says
he is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with.”
“She is pretty, I think; Anne Elliot; very pretty, when one comes to look
at her. It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire her more than
her sister.”
“Oh! so do I.”
“And so do I. No comparison. But the men are all wild after Miss Elliot.
Anne is too delicate for them.”
Anne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would
have walked by her side all the way to Camden Place, without saying a
word. She had never found it so difficult to listen to him, though nothing
could exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects were
principally such as were wont to be always interesting: praise, warm, just,
and discriminating, of Lady Russell, and insinuations highly rational against
Mrs Clay. But just now she could think only of Captain Wentworth. She
could not understand his present feelings, whether he were really suffering
much from disappointment or not; and till that point were settled, she could
not be quite herself.
She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! alas! she must
confess to herself that she was not wise yet.
Another circumstance very essential for her to know, was how long he
meant to be in Bath; he had not mentioned it, or she could not recollect it.
He might be only passing through. But it was more probable that he should
be come to stay. In that case, so liable as every body was to meet every

body in Bath, Lady Russell would in all likelihood see him somewhere.
Would she recollect him? How would it all be?
She had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that Louisa Musgrove
was to marry Captain Benwick. It had cost her something to encounter Lady
Russell’s surprise; and now, if she were by any chance to be thrown into
company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of the matter
might add another shade of prejudice against him.
The following morning Anne was out with her friend, and for the first
hour, in an incessant and fearful sort of watch for him in vain; but at last, in
returning down Pulteney Street, she distinguished him on the right hand
pavement at such a distance as to have him in view the greater part of the
street. There were many other men about him, many groups walking the
same way, but there was no mistaking him. She looked instinctively at Lady
Russell; but not from any mad idea of her recognising him so soon as she
did herself. No, it was not to be supposed that Lady Russell would perceive
him till they were nearly opposite. She looked at her however, from time to
time, anxiously; and when the moment approached which must point him
out, though not daring to look again (for her own countenance she knew
was unfit to be seen), she was yet perfectly conscious of Lady Russell’s
eyes being turned exactly in the direction for him—of her being, in short,
intently observing him. She could thoroughly comprehend the sort of
fascination he must possess over Lady Russell’s mind, the difficulty it must
be for her to withdraw her eyes, the astonishment she must be feeling that
eight or nine years should have passed over him, and in foreign climes and
in active service too, without robbing him of one personal grace!
At last, Lady Russell drew back her head. “Now, how would she speak of
him?”
“You will wonder,” said she, “what has been fixing my eye so long; but I
was looking after some window-curtains, which Lady Alicia and Mrs
Frankland were telling me of last night. They described the drawing-room
window-curtains of one of the houses on this side of the way, and this part
of the street, as being the handsomest and best hung of any in Bath, but
could not recollect the exact number, and I have been trying to find out
which it could be; but I confess I can see no curtains hereabouts that answer
their description.”

Anne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her
friend or herself. The part which provoked her most, was that in all this
waste of foresight and caution, she should have lost the right moment for
seeing whether he saw them.
A day or two passed without producing anything. The theatre or the
rooms, where he was most likely to be, were not fashionable enough for the
Elliots, whose evening amusements were solely in the elegant stupidity of
private parties, in which they were getting more and more engaged; and
Anne, wearied of such a state of stagnation, sick of knowing nothing, and
fancying herself stronger because her strength was not tried, was quite
impatient for the concert evening. It was a concert for the benefit of a
person patronised by Lady Dalrymple. Of course they must attend. It was
really expected to be a good one, and Captain Wentworth was very fond of
music. If she could only have a few minutes conversation with him again,
she fancied she should be satisfied; and as to the power of addressing him,
she felt all over courage if the opportunity occurred. Elizabeth had turned
from him, Lady Russell overlooked him; her nerves were strengthened by
these circumstances; she felt that she owed him attention.
She had once partly promised Mrs Smith to spend the evening with her;
but in a short hurried call she excused herself and put it off, with the more
decided promise of a longer visit on the morrow. Mrs Smith gave a most
good-humoured acquiescence.
“By all means,” said she; “only tell me all about it, when you do come.
Who is your party?”
Anne named them all. Mrs Smith made no reply; but when she was
leaving her said, and with an expression half serious, half arch, “Well, I
heartily wish your concert may answer; and do not fail me to-morrow if you
can come; for I begin to have a foreboding that I may not have many more
visits from you.”
Anne was startled and confused; but after standing in a moment’s
suspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away.

CHAPTER XX.

Sir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs Clay, were the earliest of all their
party at the rooms in the evening; and as Lady Dalrymple must be waited
for, they took their station by one of the fires in the Octagon Room. But
hardly were they so settled, when the door opened again, and Captain
Wentworth walked in alone. Anne was the nearest to him, and making yet a
little advance, she instantly spoke. He was preparing only to bow and pass
on, but her gentle “How do you do?” brought him out of the straight line to
stand near her, and make enquiries in return, in spite of the formidable
father and sister in the back ground. Their being in the back ground was a
support to Anne; she knew nothing of their looks, and felt equal to
everything which she believed right to be done.
While they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth
caught her ear. She could not distinguish, but she must guess the subject;
and on Captain Wentworth’s making a distant bow, she comprehended that
her father had judged so well as to give him that simple acknowledgement
of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a side glance to see a slight
curtsey from Elizabeth herself. This, though late, and reluctant, and
ungracious, was yet better than nothing, and her spirits improved.
After talking, however, of the weather, and Bath, and the concert, their
conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that she was
expecting him to go every moment, but he did not; he seemed in no hurry to
leave her; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little smile, a little glow,
he said—
“I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme. I am afraid you must
have suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering you
at the time.”
She assured him that she had not.

“It was a frightful hour,” said he, “a frightful day!” and he passed his
hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful, but in a
moment, half smiling again, added, “The day has produced some effects
however; has had some consequences which must be considered as the very
reverse of frightful. When you had the presence of mind to suggest that
Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon, you could have
little idea of his being eventually one of those most concerned in her
recovery.”
“Certainly I could have none. But it appears—I should hope it would be a
very happy match. There are on both sides good principles and good
temper.”
“Yes,” said he, looking not exactly forward; “but there, I think, ends the
resemblance. With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over every
circumstance in favour of it. They have no difficulties to contend with at
home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays. The Musgroves are behaving
like themselves, most honourably and kindly, only anxious with true
parental hearts to promote their daughter’s comfort. All this is much, very
much in favour of their happiness; more than perhaps—”
He stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him some
taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne’s cheeks and fixing her
eyes on the ground. After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded thus—
“I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity, and in a
point no less essential than mind. I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very
amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding, but
Benwick is something more. He is a clever man, a reading man; and I
confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to her with some surprise.
Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her, because he
believed her to be preferring him, it would have been another thing. But I
have no reason to suppose it so. It seems, on the contrary, to have been a
perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me. A
man like him, in his situation! with a heart pierced, wounded, almost
broken! Fanny Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to
her was indeed attachment. A man does not recover from such a devotion of
the heart to such a woman. He ought not; he does not.”
Either from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered, or
from other consciousness, he went no farther; and Anne who, in spite of the

agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in spite of all
the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam of the door, and
ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had distinguished every word,
was struck, gratified, confused, and beginning to breathe very quick, and
feel an hundred things in a moment. It was impossible for her to enter on
such a subject; and yet, after a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and
having not the smallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as
to say—
“You were a good while at Lyme, I think?”
“About a fortnight. I could not leave it till Louisa’s doing well was quite
ascertained. I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to be soon at
peace. It had been my doing, solely mine. She would not have been
obstinate if I had not been weak. The country round Lyme is very fine. I
walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the more I found to
admire.”
“I should very much like to see Lyme again,” said Anne.
“Indeed! I should not have supposed that you could have found anything
in Lyme to inspire such a feeling. The horror and distress you were involved
in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits! I should have thought your last
impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust.”
“The last hours were certainly very painful,” replied Anne; “but when
pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not
love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all
suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at Lyme.
We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and
previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment. So much novelty and
beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place would be interesting
to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in short” (with a faint blush at
some recollections), “altogether my impressions of the place are very
agreeable.”
As she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party
appeared for whom they were waiting. “Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple,”
was the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with anxious
elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet her. Lady
Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr Elliot and Colonel Wallis,
who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant, advanced into the

room. The others joined them, and it was a group in which Anne found
herself also necessarily included. She was divided from Captain Wentworth.
Their interesting, almost too interesting conversation must be broken up for
a time, but slight was the penance compared with the happiness which
brought it on! She had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings
towards Louisa, more of all his feelings than she dared to think of; and she
gave herself up to the demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the
moment, with exquisite, though agitated sensations. She was in good
humour with all. She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous
and kind to all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself.
The delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back
from the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that he
was gone. She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert Room. He
was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment’s regret. But “they should
meet again. He would look for her, he would find her out before the evening
were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well to be asunder. She was in
need of a little interval for recollection.”
Upon Lady Russell’s appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was
collected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed
into the Concert Room; and be of all the consequence in their power, draw
as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people as they
could.
Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in.
Elizabeth arm in arm with Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back of
the dowager Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish for
which did not seem within her reach; and Anne—but it would be an insult
to the nature of Anne’s felicity, to draw any comparison between it and her
sister’s; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other all generous
attachment.
Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room. Her
happiness was from within. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed;
but she knew nothing about it. She was thinking only of the last half hour,
and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range over it. His
choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his manner and look, had
been such as she could see in only one light. His opinion of Louisa
Musgrove’s inferiority, an opinion which he had seemed solicitous to give,

his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings as to a first, strong attachment;
sentences begun which he could not finish, his half averted eyes and more
than half expressive glance, all, all declared that he had a heart returning to
her at least; that anger, resentment, avoidance, were no more; and that they
were succeeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness
of the past. Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past. She could not
contemplate the change as implying less. He must love her.
These were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and
flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she passed
along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even trying to
discern him. When their places were determined on, and they were all
properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen to be in the
same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not reach him; and the
concert being just opening, she must consent for a time to be happy in a
humbler way.
The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne
was among those on the foremost, and Mr Elliot had manœuvred so well,
with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by her.
Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object of Colonel
Wallis’s gallantry, was quite contented.
Anne’s mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the
evening; it was just occupation enough: she had feelings for the tender,
spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience for the
wearisome; and had never liked a concert better, at least during the first act.
Towards the close of it, in the interval succeeding an Italian song, she
explained the words of the song to Mr Elliot. They had a concert bill
between them.
“This,” said she, “is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the words,
for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be talked of, but it is
as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not pretend to understand the
language. I am a very poor Italian scholar.”
“Yes, yes, I see you are. I see you know nothing of the matter. You have
only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these inverted,
transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant
English. You need not say anything more of your ignorance. Here is
complete proof.”

“I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be
examined by a real proficient.”
“I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long,” replied
he, “without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do regard her as
one who is too modest for the world in general to be aware of half her
accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for modesty to be natural in
any other woman.”
“For shame! for shame! this is too much flattery. I forget what we are to
have next,” turning to the bill.
“Perhaps,” said Mr Elliot, speaking low, “I have had a longer
acquaintance with your character than you are aware of.”
“Indeed! How so? You can have been acquainted with it only since I
came to Bath, excepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my
own family.”
“I knew you by report long before you came to Bath. I had heard you
described by those who knew you intimately. I have been acquainted with
you by character many years. Your person, your disposition,
accomplishments, manner; they were all present to me.”
Mr Elliot was not disappointed in the interest he hoped to raise. No one
can withstand the charm of such a mystery. To have been described long
ago to a recent acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible; and Anne
was all curiosity. She wondered, and questioned him eagerly; but in vain.
He delighted in being asked, but he would not tell.
“No, no, some time or other, perhaps, but not now. He would mention no
names now; but such, he could assure her, had been the fact. He had many
years ago received such a description of Miss Anne Elliot as had inspired
him with the highest idea of her merit, and excited the warmest curiosity to
know her.”
Anne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with partiality of her
many years ago as the Mr Wentworth of Monkford, Captain Wentworth’s
brother. He might have been in Mr Elliot’s company, but she had not
courage to ask the question.
“The name of Anne Elliot,” said he, “has long had an interesting sound to
me. Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy; and, if I dared, I
would breathe my wishes that the name might never change.”

Such, she believed, were his words; but scarcely had she received their
sound, than her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind
her, which rendered every thing else trivial. Her father and Lady Dalrymple
were speaking.
“A well-looking man,” said Sir Walter, “a very well-looking man.”
“A very fine young man indeed!” said Lady Dalrymple. “More air than
one often sees in Bath. Irish, I dare say.”
“No, I just know his name. A bowing acquaintance. Wentworth; Captain
Wentworth of the navy. His sister married my tenant in Somersetshire, the
Croft, who rents Kellynch.”
Before Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne’s eyes had caught the
right direction, and distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a
cluster of men at a little distance. As her eyes fell on him, his seemed to be
withdrawn from her. It had that appearance. It seemed as if she had been
one moment too late; and as long as she dared observe, he did not look
again: but the performance was recommencing, and she was forced to seem
to restore her attention to the orchestra and look straight forward.
When she could give another glance, he had moved away. He could not
have come nearer to her if he would; she was so surrounded and shut in: but
she would rather have caught his eye.
Mr Elliot’s speech, too, distressed her. She had no longer any inclination
to talk to him. She wished him not so near her.
The first act was over. Now she hoped for some beneficial change; and,
after a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did decide
on going in quest of tea. Anne was one of the few who did not choose to
move. She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell; but she had the
pleasure of getting rid of Mr Elliot; and she did not mean, whatever she
might feel on Lady Russell’s account, to shrink from conversation with
Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity. She was persuaded by
Lady Russell’s countenance that she had seen him.
He did not come however. Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at
a distance, but he never came. The anxious interval wore away
unproductively. The others returned, the room filled again, benches were
reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of penance was
to be sat out, another hour of music was to give delight or the gapes, as real

or affected taste for it prevailed. To Anne, it chiefly wore the prospect of an
hour of agitation. She could not quit that room in peace without seeing
Captain Wentworth once more, without the interchange of one friendly
look.
In re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of
which was favourable for her. Colonel Wallis declined sitting down again,
and Mr Elliot was invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret, in a manner not
to be refused, to sit between them; and by some other removals, and a little
scheming of her own, Anne was enabled to place herself much nearer the
end of the bench than she had been before, much more within reach of a
passer-by. She could not do so, without comparing herself with Miss
Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles; but still she did it, and not with much
happier effect; though by what seemed prosperity in the shape of an early
abdication in her next neighbours, she found herself at the very end of the
bench before the concert closed.
Such was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when Captain
Wentworth was again in sight. She saw him not far off. He saw her too; yet
he looked grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow degrees
came at last near enough to speak to her. She felt that something must be
the matter. The change was indubitable. The difference between his present
air and what it had been in the Octagon Room was strikingly great. Why
was it? She thought of her father, of Lady Russell. Could there have been
any unpleasant glances? He began by speaking of the concert gravely, more
like the Captain Wentworth of Uppercross; owned himself disappointed,
had expected singing; and in short, must confess that he should not be sorry
when it was over. Anne replied, and spoke in defence of the performance so
well, and yet in allowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his
countenance improved, and he replied again with almost a smile. They
talked for a few minutes more; the improvement held; he even looked down
towards the bench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying; when at
that moment a touch on her shoulder obliged Anne to turn round. It came
from Mr Elliot. He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to
explain Italian again. Miss Carteret was very anxious to have a general idea
of what was next to be sung. Anne could not refuse; but never had she
sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit.

A few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and
when her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done
before, she found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved yet
hurried sort of farewell. “He must wish her good night; he was going; he
should get home as fast as he could.”
“Is not this song worth staying for?” said Anne, suddenly struck by an
idea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging.
“No!” he replied impressively, “there is nothing worth my staying for;”
and he was gone directly.
Jealousy of Mr Elliot! It was the only intelligible motive. Captain
Wentworth jealous of her affection! Could she have believed it a week ago;
three hours ago! For a moment the gratification was exquisite. But, alas!
there were very different thoughts to succeed. How was such jealousy to be
quieted? How was the truth to reach him? How, in all the peculiar
disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever learn of her real
sentiments? It was misery to think of Mr Elliot’s attentions. Their evil was
incalculable.

CHAPTER XXI.

Anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to
Mrs Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when
Mr Elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid Mr Elliot was almost a
first object.
She felt a great deal of good-will towards him. In spite of the mischief of
his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps compassion. She
could not help thinking much of the extraordinary circumstances attending
their acquaintance, of the right which he seemed to have to interest her, by
everything in situation, by his own sentiments, by his early prepossession. It
was altogether very extraordinary; flattering, but painful. There was much
to regret. How she might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in
the case, was not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be
the conclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be
his for ever. Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from other
men, than their final separation.
Prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could never
have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting with from
Camden Place to Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread
purification and perfume all the way.
She was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this morning
particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have expected her,
though it had been an appointment.
An account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne’s
recollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her
features and make her rejoice to talk of it. All that she could tell she told
most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been there, and
unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had already heard,
through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter, rather more of the general

success and produce of the evening than Anne could relate, and who now
asked in vain for several particulars of the company. Everybody of any
consequence or notoriety in Bath was well know by name to Mrs Smith.
“The little Durands were there, I conclude,” said she, “with their mouths
open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They
never miss a concert.”
“Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in
the room.”
“The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the tall
Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them.”
“I do not know. I do not think they were.”
“Old Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I
know; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle;
for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur,
round the orchestra, of course.”
“No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me
in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther
off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not
say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little.”
“Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There
is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you
had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond.”
“But I ought to have looked about me more,” said Anne, conscious while
she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the
object only had been deficient.
“No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a
pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed:
that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the
concert it was conversation.”
Anne half smiled and said, “Do you see that in my eye?”
“Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in
company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in
the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all
the rest of the world put together.”

A blush overspread Anne’s cheeks. She could say nothing.
“And such being the case,” continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, “I
hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to
me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me,
when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time.”
Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and
confusion excited by her friend’s penetration, unable to imagine how any
report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her. After another short
silence—
“Pray,” said Mrs Smith, “is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with
me? Does he know that I am in Bath?”
“Mr Elliot!” repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A moment’s reflection
shewed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it instantaneously;
and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more
composedly, “Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?”
“I have been a good deal acquainted with him,” replied Mrs Smith,
gravely, “but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met.”
“I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I
known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you.”
“To confess the truth,” said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of
cheerfulness, “that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have. I want you to
talk about me to Mr Elliot. I want your interest with him. He can be of
essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss
Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done.”
“I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to
be of even the slightest use to you,” replied Anne; “but I suspect that you
are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater right to
influence him, than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or
other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only as Mr Elliot’s
relation. If in that light there is anything which you suppose his cousin
might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not hesitate to employ me.”
Mrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said—
“I have been a little premature, I perceive; I beg your pardon. I ought to
have waited for official information. But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an
old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak. Next week? To be

sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and build my own
selfish schemes on Mr Elliot’s good fortune.”
“No,” replied Anne, “nor next week, nor next, nor next. I assure you that
nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week. I am not
going to marry Mr Elliot. I should like to know why you imagine I am?”
Mrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head,
and exclaimed—
“Now, how I do wish I understood you! How I do wish I knew what you
were at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the
right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never mean
to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused,
till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my—present
friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a
more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike,
agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr Elliot. I am sure you hear nothing
but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can know him better than
Colonel Wallis?”
“My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot’s wife has not been dead much above half
a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one.”
“Oh! if these are your only objections,” cried Mrs Smith, archly, “Mr
Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not
forget me when you are married, that’s all. Let him know me to be a friend
of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very
natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to
avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a
hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the
importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be
very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman.
Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all
worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will
not be misled by others to his ruin.”
“No,” said Anne, “I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to
have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I
consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has
fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him
long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this

manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to
me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to
me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to
imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I
shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been
supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not
Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that—”
She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much;
but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have
believed so soon in Mr Elliot’s failure, but from the perception of there
being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the
semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther
notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was
to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom
she could have heard it.
“Do tell me how it first came into your head.”
“It first came into my head,” replied Mrs Smith, “upon finding how much
you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world
to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may
depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same
way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago.”
“And has it indeed been spoken of?”
“Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you
called yesterday?”
“No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in
particular.”
“It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great
curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She
came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was
who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis
herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on
Monday evening, and gave me the whole history.”
“The whole history,” repeated Anne, laughing. “She could not make a
very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news.”
Mrs Smith said nothing.

“But,” continued Anne, presently, “though there is no truth in my having
this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in
any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I
take any message?”
“No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and
under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest
you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to
trouble you with.”
“I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?”
“I did.”
“Not before he was married, I suppose?”
“Yes; he was not married when I knew him first.”
“And—were you much acquainted?”
“Intimately.”
“Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great
curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all
such as he appears now?”
“I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years,” was Mrs Smith’s answer,
given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and
Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They
were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last—
“I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot,” she cried, in her natural tone of
cordiality, “I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you,
but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and
considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be
taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad
impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union
seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath.
However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be
made acquainted with Mr Elliot’s real character. Though I fully believe that,
at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no
saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently
affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are
unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing,
wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own

interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could
be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for
others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can
neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond
the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at
heart, hollow and black!”
Anne’s astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and
in a calmer manner, she added,
“My expressions startle you. You must allow for an injured, angry
woman. But I will try to command myself. I will not abuse him. I will only
tell you what I have found him. Facts shall speak. He was the intimate
friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as
good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before our marriage. I
found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became excessively pleased
with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you
know, one does not think very seriously; but Mr Elliot appeared to me quite
as good as others, and much more agreeable than most others, and we were
almost always together. We were principally in town, living in very good
style. He was then the inferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one;
he had chambers in the Temple, and it was as much as he could do to
support the appearance of a gentleman. He had always a home with us
whenever he chose it; he was always welcome; he was like a brother. My
poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would
have divided his last farthing with him; and I know that his purse was open
to him; I know that he often assisted him.”
“This must have been about that very period of Mr Elliot’s life,” said
Anne, “which has always excited my particular curiosity. It must have been
about the same time that he became known to my father and sister. I never
knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something in his
conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and afterwards in the
circumstances of his marriage, which I never could quite reconcile with
present times. It seemed to announce a different sort of man.”
“I know it all, I know it all,” cried Mrs Smith. “He had been introduced
to Sir Walter and your sister before I was acquainted with him, but I heard
him speak of them for ever. I know he was invited and encouraged, and I
know he did not choose to go. I can satisfy you, perhaps, on points which

you would little expect; and as to his marriage, I knew all about it at the
time. I was privy to all the fors and againsts; I was the friend to whom he
confided his hopes and plans; and though I did not know his wife
previously, her inferior situation in society, indeed, rendered that
impossible, yet I knew her all her life afterwards, or at least till within the
last two years of her life, and can answer any question you may wish to
put.”
“Nay,” said Anne, “I have no particular enquiry to make about her. I have
always understood they were not a happy couple. But I should like to know
why, at that time of his life, he should slight my father’s acquaintance as he
did. My father was certainly disposed to take very kind and proper notice of
him. Why did Mr Elliot draw back?”
“Mr Elliot,” replied Mrs Smith, “at that period of his life, had one object
in view: to make his fortune, and by a rather quicker process than the law.
He was determined to make it by marriage. He was determined, at least, not
to mar it by an imprudent marriage; and I know it was his belief (whether
justly or not, of course I cannot decide), that your father and sister, in their
civilities and invitations, were designing a match between the heir and the
young lady, and it was impossible that such a match should have answered
his ideas of wealth and independence. That was his motive for drawing
back, I can assure you. He told me the whole story. He had no concealments
with me. It was curious, that having just left you behind me in Bath, my
first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be your cousin; and
that, through him, I should be continually hearing of your father and sister.
He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought very affectionately of the
other.”
“Perhaps,” cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea, “you sometimes spoke of
me to Mr Elliot?”
“To be sure I did; very often. I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot, and
vouch for your being a very different creature from—”
She checked herself just in time.
“This accounts for something which Mr Elliot said last night,” cried
Anne. “This explains it. I found he had been used to hear of me. I could not
comprehend how. What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is
concerned! How sure to be mistaken! But I beg your pardon; I have

interrupted you. Mr Elliot married then completely for money? The
circumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his character.”
Mrs Smith hesitated a little here. “Oh! those things are too common.
When one lives in the world, a man or woman’s marrying for money is too
common to strike one as it ought. I was very young, and associated only
with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any strict rules
of conduct. We lived for enjoyment. I think differently now; time and
sickness and sorrow have given me other notions; but at that period I must
own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr Elliot was doing. ‘To do the
best for himself,’ passed as a duty.”
“But was not she a very low woman?”
“Yes; which I objected to, but he would not regard. Money, money, was
all that he wanted. Her father was a grazier, her grandfather had been a
butcher, but that was all nothing. She was a fine woman, had had a decent
education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance into Mr
Elliot’s company, and fell in love with him; and not a difficulty or a scruple
was there on his side, with respect to her birth. All his caution was spent in
being secured of the real amount of her fortune, before he committed
himself. Depend upon it, whatever esteem Mr Elliot may have for his own
situation in life now, as a young man he had not the smallest value for it.
His chance for the Kellynch estate was something, but all the honour of the
family he held as cheap as dirt. I have often heard him declare, that if
baronetcies were saleable, anybody should have his for fifty pounds, arms
and motto, name and livery included; but I will not pretend to repeat half
that I used to hear him say on that subject. It would not be fair; and yet you
ought to have proof, for what is all this but assertion, and you shall have
proof.”
“Indeed, my dear Mrs Smith, I want none,” cried Anne. “You have
asserted nothing contradictory to what Mr Elliot appeared to be some years
ago. This is all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to hear and believe.
I am more curious to know why he should be so different now.”
“But for my satisfaction, if you will have the goodness to ring for Mary;
stay: I am sure you will have the still greater goodness of going yourself
into my bedroom, and bringing me the small inlaid box which you will find
on the upper shelf of the closet.”

Anne, seeing her friend to be earnestly bent on it, did as she was desired.
The box was brought and placed before her, and Mrs Smith, sighing over it
as she unlocked it, said—
“This is full of papers belonging to him, to my husband; a small portion
only of what I had to look over when I lost him. The letter I am looking for
was one written by Mr Elliot to him before our marriage, and happened to
be saved; why, one can hardly imagine. But he was careless and
immethodical, like other men, about those things; and when I came to
examine his papers, I found it with others still more trivial, from different
people scattered here and there, while many letters and memorandums of
real importance had been destroyed. Here it is; I would not burn it, because
being even then very little satisfied with Mr Elliot, I was determined to
preserve every document of former intimacy. I have now another motive for
being glad that I can produce it.”
This was the letter, directed to “Charles Smith, Esq. Tunbridge Wells,”
and dated from London, as far back as July, 1803:—

“Dear Smith,
“I have received yours. Your kindness almost overpowers
me. I wish nature had made such hearts as yours more
common, but I have lived three-and-twenty years in the
world, and have seen none like it. At present, believe me, I
have no need of your services, being in cash again. Give me
joy: I have got rid of Sir Walter and Miss. They are gone
back to Kellynch, and almost made me swear to visit them
this summer; but my first visit to Kellynch will be with a
surveyor, to tell me how to bring it with best advantage to
the hammer. The baronet, nevertheless, is not unlikely to
marry again; he is quite fool enough. If he does, however,
they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent
equivalent for the reversion. He is worse than last year.
“I wish I had any name but Elliot. I am sick of it. The
name of Walter I can drop, thank God! and I desire you will
never insult me with my second W. again, meaning, for the
rest of my life, to be only yours truly,

“WM. ELLIOT.”

Such a letter could not be read without putting Anne in a glow; and Mrs
Smith, observing the high colour in her face, said—
“The language, I know, is highly disrespectful. Though I have forgot the
exact terms, I have a perfect impression of the general meaning. But it
shows you the man. Mark his professions to my poor husband. Can any
thing be stronger?”
Anne could not immediately get over the shock and mortification of
finding such words applied to her father. She was obliged to recollect that
her seeing the letter was a violation of the laws of honour, that no one ought
to be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no private
correspondence could bear the eye of others, before she could recover
calmness enough to return the letter which she had been meditating over,
and say—
“Thank you. This is full proof undoubtedly; proof of every thing you
were saying. But why be acquainted with us now?”
“I can explain this too,” cried Mrs Smith, smiling.
“Can you really?”
“Yes. I have shewn you Mr Elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and I will
shew him as he is now. I cannot produce written proof again, but I can give
as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is now wanting,
and what he is now doing. He is no hypocrite now. He truly wants to marry
you. His present attentions to your family are very sincere: quite from the
heart. I will give you my authority: his friend Colonel Wallis.”
“Colonel Wallis! you are acquainted with him?”
“No. It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it takes a
bend or two, but nothing of consequence. The stream is as good as at first;
the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily moved away. Mr Elliot
talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his views on you, which said
Colonel Wallis, I imagine to be, in himself, a sensible, careful, discerning
sort of character; but Colonel Wallis has a very pretty silly wife, to whom
he tells things which he had better not, and he repeats it all to her. She in the
overflowing spirits of her recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse
knowing my acquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me. On

Monday evening, my good friend Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the
secrets of Marlborough Buildings. When I talked of a whole history,
therefore, you see I was not romancing so much as you supposed.”
“My dear Mrs Smith, your authority is deficient. This will not do. Mr
Elliot’s having any views on me will not in the least account for the efforts
he made towards a reconciliation with my father. That was all prior to my
coming to Bath. I found them on the most friendly terms when I arrived.”
“I know you did; I know it all perfectly, but—”
“Indeed, Mrs Smith, we must not expect to get real information in such a
line. Facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so many, to
be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can hardly have
much truth left.”
“Only give me a hearing. You will soon be able to judge of the general
credit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself
immediately contradict or confirm. Nobody supposes that you were his first
inducement. He had seen you indeed, before he came to Bath, and admired
you, but without knowing it to be you. So says my historian, at least. Is this
true? Did he see you last summer or autumn, ‘somewhere down in the
west,’ to use her own words, without knowing it to be you?”
“He certainly did. So far it is very true. At Lyme. I happened to be at
Lyme.”
“Well,” continued Mrs Smith, triumphantly, “grant my friend the credit
due to the establishment of the first point asserted. He saw you then at
Lyme, and liked you so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet with you
again in Camden Place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from that moment, I have
no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there. But there was another, and
an earlier, which I will now explain. If there is anything in my story which
you know to be either false or improbable, stop me. My account states, that
your sister’s friend, the lady now staying with you, whom I have heard you
mention, came to Bath with Miss Elliot and Sir Walter as long ago as
September (in short when they first came themselves), and has been staying
there ever since; that she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor
and plausible, and altogether such in situation and manner, as to give a
general idea, among Sir Walter’s acquaintance, of her meaning to be Lady
Elliot, and as general a surprise that Miss Elliot should be apparently, blind
to the danger.”

Here Mrs Smith paused a moment; but Anne had not a word to say, and
she continued—
“This was the light in which it appeared to those who knew the family,
long before you returned to it; and Colonel Wallis had his eye upon your
father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit in Camden
Place; but his regard for Mr Elliot gave him an interest in watching all that
was going on there, and when Mr Elliot came to Bath for a day or two, as
he happened to do a little before Christmas, Colonel Wallis made him
acquainted with the appearance of things, and the reports beginning to
prevail. Now you are to understand, that time had worked a very material
change in Mr Elliot’s opinions as to the value of a baronetcy. Upon all
points of blood and connexion he is a completely altered man. Having long
had as much money as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of
avarice or indulgence, he has been gradually learning to pin his happiness
upon the consequence he is heir to. I thought it coming on before our
acquaintance ceased, but it is now a confirmed feeling. He cannot bear the
idea of not being Sir William. You may guess, therefore, that the news he
heard from his friend could not be very agreeable, and you may guess what
it produced; the resolution of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and
of fixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former
acquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family as might give him
the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of circumventing the
lady if he found it material. This was agreed upon between the two friends
as the only thing to be done; and Colonel Wallis was to assist in every way
that he could. He was to be introduced, and Mrs Wallis was to be
introduced, and everybody was to be introduced. Mr Elliot came back
accordingly; and on application was forgiven, as you know, and re-admitted
into the family; and there it was his constant object, and his only object (till
your arrival added another motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay. He
omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way,
called at all hours; but I need not be particular on this subject. You can
imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may
recollect what you have seen him do.”
“Yes,” said Anne, “you tell me nothing which does not accord with what
I have known, or could imagine. There is always something offensive in the
details of cunning. The manœuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever
be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me. I know

those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr Elliot, who
would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never been satisfied. I have
always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared. I should
like to know his present opinion, as to the probability of the event he has
been in dread of; whether he considers the danger to be lessening or not.”
“Lessening, I understand,” replied Mrs Smith. “He thinks Mrs Clay
afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to proceed as
she might do in his absence. But since he must be absent some time or
other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her
present influence. Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it
is to be put into the marriage articles when you and Mr Elliot marry, that
your father is not to marry Mrs Clay. A scheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis’s
understanding, by all accounts; but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the
absurdity of it. ‘Why, to be sure, ma’am,’ said she, ‘it would not prevent his
marrying anybody else.’ And, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse,
in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter’s making a second
match. She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and
(since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying
visions of attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis’s
recommendation?”
“I am very glad to know all this,” said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.
“It will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him,
but I shall know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct.
Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has
never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness.”
But Mr Elliot was not done with. Mrs Smith had been carried away from
her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family
concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but her
attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints, and she
listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify the unqualified
bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very unfeeling in his
conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice and compassion.
She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by
Mr Elliot’s marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr
Elliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs Smith
did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of throwing any

on her husband; but Anne could collect that their income had never been
equal to their style of living, and that from the first there had been a great
deal of general and joint extravagance. From his wife’s account of him she
could discern Mr Smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper,
careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his
friend, and very unlike him, led by him, and probably despised by him. Mr
Elliot, raised by his marriage to great affluence, and disposed to every
gratification of pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without
involving himself, (for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent
man), and beginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found
himself to be poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend’s
probable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and
encouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the Smiths
accordingly had been ruined.
The husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of it.
They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the friendship of
their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot’s had better not be tried; but it was
not till his death that the wretched state of his affairs was fully known. With
a confidence in Mr Elliot’s regard, more creditable to his feelings than his
judgement, Mr Smith had appointed him the executor of his will; but Mr
Elliot would not act, and the difficulties and distress which this refusal had
heaped on her, in addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had
been such as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or listened to
without corresponding indignation.
Anne was shewn some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent
applications from Mrs Smith, which all breathed the same stern resolution
of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold civility, the same
hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it might bring on her. It was a
dreadful picture of ingratitude and inhumanity; and Anne felt, at some
moments, that no flagrant open crime could have been worse. She had a
great deal to listen to; all the particulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae
of distress upon distress, which in former conversations had been merely
hinted at, were dwelt on now with a natural indulgence. Anne could
perfectly comprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to
wonder at the composure of her friend’s usual state of mind.

There was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of particular
irritation. She had good reason to believe that some property of her husband
in the West Indies, which had been for many years under a sort of
sequestration for the payment of its own incumbrances, might be
recoverable by proper measures; and this property, though not large, would
be enough to make her comparatively rich. But there was nobody to stir in
it. Mr Elliot would do nothing, and she could do nothing herself, equally
disabled from personal exertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from
employing others by her want of money. She had no natural connexions to
assist her even with their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the
assistance of the law. This was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened
means. To feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little
trouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be even
weakening her claims, was hard to bear.
It was on this point that she had hoped to engage Anne’s good offices
with Mr Elliot. She had previously, in the anticipation of their marriage,
been very apprehensive of losing her friend by it; but on being assured that
he could have made no attempt of that nature, since he did not even know
her to be in Bath, it immediately occurred, that something might be done in
her favour by the influence of the woman he loved, and she had been hastily
preparing to interest Anne’s feelings, as far as the observances due to Mr
Elliot’s character would allow, when Anne’s refutation of the supposed
engagement changed the face of everything; and while it took from her the
new-formed hope of succeeding in the object of her first anxiety, left her at
least the comfort of telling the whole story her own way.
After listening to this full description of Mr Elliot, Anne could not but
express some surprise at Mrs Smith’s having spoken of him so favourably
in the beginning of their conversation. “She had seemed to recommend and
praise him!”
“My dear,” was Mrs Smith’s reply, “there was nothing else to be done. I
considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have
made the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he had
been your husband. My heart bled for you, as I talked of happiness; and yet
he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a woman as you, it was not
absolutely hopeless. He was very unkind to his first wife. They were

wretched together. But she was too ignorant and giddy for respect, and he
had never loved her. I was willing to hope that you must fare better.”
Anne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having
been induced to marry him, as made her shudder at the idea of the misery
which must have followed. It was just possible that she might have been
persuaded by Lady Russell! And under such a supposition, which would
have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too late?
It was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no longer deceived; and
one of the concluding arrangements of this important conference, which
carried them through the greater part of the morning, was, that Anne had
full liberty to communicate to her friend everything relative to Mrs Smith,
in which his conduct was involved.

CHAPTER XXII.

Anne went home to think over all that she had heard. In one point, her
feelings were relieved by this knowledge of Mr Elliot. There was no longer
anything of tenderness due to him. He stood as opposed to Captain
Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness; and the evil of his
attentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have done, was
considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed. Pity for him was all
over. But this was the only point of relief. In every other respect, in looking
around her, or penetrating forward, she saw more to distrust and to
apprehend. She was concerned for the disappointment and pain Lady
Russell would be feeling; for the mortifications which must be hanging over
her father and sister, and had all the distress of foreseeing many evils,
without knowing how to avert any one of them. She was most thankful for
her own knowledge of him. She had never considered herself as entitled to
reward for not slighting an old friend like Mrs Smith, but here was a reward
indeed springing from it! Mrs Smith had been able to tell her what no one
else could have done. Could the knowledge have been extended through her
family? But this was a vain idea. She must talk to Lady Russell, tell her,
consult with her, and having done her best, wait the event with as much
composure as possible; and after all, her greatest want of composure would
be in that quarter of the mind which could not be opened to Lady Russell; in
that flow of anxieties and fears which must be all to herself.
She found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped
seeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning visit; but
hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, when she heard that he
was coming again in the evening.
“I had not the smallest intention of asking him,” said Elizabeth, with
affected carelessness, “but he gave so many hints; so Mrs Clay says, at
least.”

“Indeed, I do say it. I never saw anybody in my life spell harder for an
invitation. Poor man! I was really in pain for him; for your hard-hearted
sister, Miss Anne, seems bent on cruelty.”
“Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I have been rather too much used to the game to
be soon overcome by a gentleman’s hints. However, when I found how
excessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this morning, I
gave way immediately, for I would never really omit an opportunity of
bringing him and Sir Walter together. They appear to so much advantage in
company with each other. Each behaving so pleasantly. Mr Elliot looking
up with so much respect.”
“Quite delightful!” cried Mrs Clay, not daring, however, to turn her eyes
towards Anne. “Exactly like father and son! Dear Miss Elliot, may I not say
father and son?”
“Oh! I lay no embargo on any body’s words. If you will have such ideas!
But, upon my word, I am scarcely sensible of his attentions being beyond
those of other men.”
“My dear Miss Elliot!” exclaimed Mrs Clay, lifting her hands and eyes,
and sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence.
“Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him. I did
invite him, you know. I sent him away with smiles. When I found he was
really going to his friends at Thornberry Park for the whole day to-morrow,
I had compassion on him.”
Anne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such
pleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of the very
person whose presence must really be interfering with her prime object. It
was impossible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight of Mr Elliot; and yet
she could assume a most obliging, placid look, and appear quite satisfied
with the curtailed license of devoting herself only half as much to Sir Walter
as she would have done otherwise.
To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot enter the room;
and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her. She had been used
before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but now she saw
insincerity in everything. His attentive deference to her father, contrasted
with his former language, was odious; and when she thought of his cruel
conduct towards Mrs Smith, she could hardly bear the sight of his present
smiles and mildness, or the sound of his artificial good sentiments.

She meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a
remonstrance on his side. It was a great object to her to escape all enquiry
or eclat; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to him as might be
compatible with their relationship; and to retrace, as quietly as she could,
the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had been gradually led along.
She was accordingly more guarded, and more cool, than she had been the
night before.
He wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could
have heard her formerly praised; wanted very much to be gratified by more
solicitation; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and animation
of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin’s vanity; he
found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of those attempts
which he could hazard among the too-commanding claims of the others. He
little surmised that it was a subject acting now exactly against his interest,
bringing immediately to her thoughts all those parts of his conduct which
were least excusable.
She had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of Bath
the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the greater part of
two days. He was invited again to Camden Place the very evening of his
return; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his absence was certain. It
was bad enough that a Mrs Clay should be always before her; but that a
deeper hypocrite should be added to their party, seemed the destruction of
everything like peace and comfort. It was so humiliating to reflect on the
constant deception practised on her father and Elizabeth; to consider the
various sources of mortification preparing for them! Mrs Clay’s selfishness
was not so complicate nor so revolting as his; and Anne would have
compounded for the marriage at once, with all its evils, to be clear of Mr
Elliot’s subtleties in endeavouring to prevent it.
On Friday morning she meant to go very early to Lady Russell, and
accomplish the necessary communication; and she would have gone
directly after breakfast, but that Mrs Clay was also going out on some
obliging purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined her to wait
till she might be safe from such a companion. She saw Mrs Clay fairly off,
therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning in Rivers Street.
“Very well,” said Elizabeth, “I have nothing to send but my love. Oh!
you may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and

pretend I have read it through. I really cannot be plaguing myself for ever
with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out. Lady Russell
quite bores one with her new publications. You need not tell her so, but I
thought her dress hideous the other night. I used to think she had some taste
in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the concert. Something so formal and
arrangé in her air! and she sits so upright! My best love, of course.”
“And mine,” added Sir Walter. “Kindest regards. And you may say, that I
mean to call upon her soon. Make a civil message; but I shall only leave my
card. Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of life, who make
themselves up so little. If she would only wear rouge she would not be
afraid of being seen; but last time I called, I observed the blinds were let
down immediately.”
While her father spoke, there was a knock at the door. Who could it be?
Anne, remembering the preconcerted visits, at all hours, of Mr Elliot, would
have expected him, but for his known engagement seven miles off. After the
usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of approach were heard, and “Mr
and Mrs Charles Musgrove” were ushered into the room.
Surprise was the strongest emotion raised by their appearance; but Anne
was really glad to see them; and the others were not so sorry but that they
could put on a decent air of welcome; and as soon as it became clear that
these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any views of
accommodation in that house, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were able to rise in
cordiality, and do the honours of it very well. They were come to Bath for a
few days with Mrs Musgrove, and were at the White Hart. So much was
pretty soon understood; but till Sir Walter and Elizabeth were walking Mary
into the other drawing-room, and regaling themselves with her admiration,
Anne could not draw upon Charles’s brain for a regular history of their
coming, or an explanation of some smiling hints of particular business,
which had been ostentatiously dropped by Mary, as well as of some
apparent confusion as to whom their party consisted of.
She then found that it consisted of Mrs Musgrove, Henrietta, and Captain
Harville, beside their two selves. He gave her a very plain, intelligible
account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great deal of most
characteristic proceeding. The scheme had received its first impulse by
Captain Harville’s wanting to come to Bath on business. He had begun to
talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing something, as shooting was over,

Charles had proposed coming with him, and Mrs Harville had seemed to
like the idea of it very much, as an advantage to her husband; but Mary
could not bear to be left, and had made herself so unhappy about it, that for
a day or two everything seemed to be in suspense, or at an end. But then, it
had been taken up by his father and mother. His mother had some old
friends in Bath whom she wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity
for Henrietta to come and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister;
and, in short, it ended in being his mother’s party, that everything might be
comfortable and easy to Captain Harville; and he and Mary were included
in it by way of general convenience. They had arrived late the night before.
Mrs Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with Mr
Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross.
Anne’s only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough
for Henrietta’s wedding-clothes to be talked of. She had imagined such
difficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage from being
near at hand; but she learned from Charles that, very recently, (since Mary’s
last letter to herself), Charles Hayter had been applied to by a friend to hold
a living for a youth who could not possibly claim it under many years; and
that on the strength of his present income, with almost a certainty of
something more permanent long before the term in question, the two
families had consented to the young people’s wishes, and that their
marriage was likely to take place in a few months, quite as soon as
Louisa’s. “And a very good living it was,” Charles added: “only five-and-
twenty miles from Uppercross, and in a very fine country: fine part of
Dorsetshire. In the centre of some of the best preserves in the kingdom,
surrounded by three great proprietors, each more careful and jealous than
the other; and to two of the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special
recommendation. Not that he will value it as he ought,” he observed,
“Charles is too cool about sporting. That’s the worst of him.”
“I am extremely glad, indeed,” cried Anne, “particularly glad that this
should happen; and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well, and
who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of one
should not be dimming those of the other—that they should be so equal in
their prosperity and comfort. I hope your father and mother are quite happy
with regard to both.”

“Oh! yes. My father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were richer,
but he has no other fault to find. Money, you know, coming down with
money—two daughters at once—it cannot be a very agreeable operation,
and it streightens him as to many things. However, I do not mean to say
they have not a right to it. It is very fit they should have daughters’ shares;
and I am sure he has always been a very kind, liberal father to me. Mary
does not above half like Henrietta’s match. She never did, you know. But
she does not do him justice, nor think enough about Winthrop. I cannot
make her attend to the value of the property. It is a very fair match, as times
go; and I have liked Charles Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off
now.”
“Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Musgrove,” exclaimed Anne,
“should be happy in their children’s marriages. They do everything to
confer happiness, I am sure. What a blessing to young people to be in such
hands! Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those ambitious
feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery, both in young
and old. I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered now?”
He answered rather hesitatingly, “Yes, I believe I do; very much
recovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no
laughing or dancing; it is quite different. If one happens only to shut the
door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young dab-chick in the
water; and Benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses, or whispering to her,
all day long.”
Anne could not help laughing. “That cannot be much to your taste, I
know,” said she; “but I do believe him to be an excellent young man.”
“To be sure he is. Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am so
illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and pleasures as
myself. I have a great value for Benwick; and when one can but get him to
talk, he has plenty to say. His reading has done him no harm, for he has
fought as well as read. He is a brave fellow. I got more acquainted with him
last Monday than ever I did before. We had a famous set-to at rat-hunting
all the morning in my father’s great barns; and he played his part so well
that I have liked him the better ever since.”
Here they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles’s
following the others to admire mirrors and china; but Anne had heard
enough to understand the present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in its

happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none of the
ill-will of envy in it. She would certainly have risen to their blessings if she
could, but she did not want to lessen theirs.
The visit passed off altogether in high good humour. Mary was in
excellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well satisfied
with the journey in her mother-in-law’s carriage with four horses, and with
her own complete independence of Camden Place, that she was exactly in a
temper to admire everything as she ought, and enter most readily into all the
superiorities of the house, as they were detailed to her. She had no demands
on her father or sister, and her consequence was just enough increased by
their handsome drawing-rooms.
Elizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal. She felt that Mrs
Musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but she
could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of servants,
which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been always so
inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch. It was a struggle between propriety and
vanity; but vanity got the better, and then Elizabeth was happy again. These
were her internal persuasions: “Old fashioned notions; country hospitality;
we do not profess to give dinners; few people in Bath do; Lady Alicia never
does; did not even ask her own sister’s family, though they were here a
month: and I dare say it would be very inconvenient to Mrs Musgrove; put
her quite out of her way. I am sure she would rather not come; she cannot
feel easy with us. I will ask them all for an evening; that will be much
better; that will be a novelty and a treat. They have not seen two such
drawing rooms before. They will be delighted to come to-morrow evening.
It shall be a regular party, small, but most elegant.” And this satisfied
Elizabeth: and when the invitation was given to the two present, and
promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied. She was
particularly asked to meet Mr Elliot, and be introduced to Lady Dalrymple
and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to come; and she
could not have received a more gratifying attention. Miss Elliot was to have
the honour of calling on Mrs Musgrove in the course of the morning; and
Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go and see her and Henrietta
directly.
Her plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present. They
all three called in Rivers Street for a couple of minutes; but Anne convinced

herself that a day’s delay of the intended communication could be of no
consequence, and hastened forward to the White Hart, to see again the
friends and companions of the last autumn, with an eagerness of good-will
which many associations contributed to form.
They found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves,
and Anne had the kindest welcome from each. Henrietta was exactly in that
state of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made
her full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before at all;
and Mrs Musgrove’s real affection had been won by her usefulness when
they were in distress. It was a heartiness, and a warmth, and a sincerity
which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad want of such blessings at
home. She was entreated to give them as much of her time as possible,
invited for every day and all day long, or rather claimed as part of the
family; and, in return, she naturally fell into all her wonted ways of
attention and assistance, and on Charles’s leaving them together, was
listening to Mrs Musgrove’s history of Louisa, and to Henrietta’s of herself,
giving opinions on business, and recommendations to shops; with intervals
of every help which Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her
accounts; from finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to
convince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well
amused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the
entrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining.
A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected. A large party in an
hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene. One five minutes brought
a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an hour, when
their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half filled: a party
of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Musgrove, and Charles came
back with Captains Harville and Wentworth. The appearance of the latter
could not be more than the surprise of the moment. It was impossible for
her to have forgotten to feel that this arrival of their common friends must
be soon bringing them together again. Their last meeting had been most
important in opening his feelings; she had derived from it a delightful
conviction; but she feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate
persuasion, which had hastened him away from the Concert Room, still
governed. He did not seem to want to be near enough for conversation.

She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried to
dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:—“Surely, if there be
constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand each other ere
long. We are not boy and girl, to be captiously irritable, misled by every
moment’s inadvertence, and wantonly playing with our own happiness.”
And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt as if their being in company
with each other, under their present circumstances, could only be exposing
them to inadvertencies and misconstructions of the most mischievous kind.
“Anne,” cried Mary, still at her window, “there is Mrs Clay, I am sure,
standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her. I saw them turn the
corner from Bath Street just now. They seemed deep in talk. Who is it?
Come, and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect. It is Mr Elliot himself.”
“No,” cried Anne, quickly, “it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you. He was
to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till to-morrow.”
As she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the
consciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret
that she had said so much, simple as it was.
Mary, resenting that she should be supposed not to know her own cousin,
began talking very warmly about the family features, and protesting still
more positively that it was Mr Elliot, calling again upon Anne to come and
look for herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to be cool and
unconcerned. Her distress returned, however, on perceiving smiles and
intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady visitors, as if they
believed themselves quite in the secret. It was evident that the report
concerning her had spread, and a short pause succeeded, which seemed to
ensure that it would now spread farther.
“Do come, Anne,” cried Mary, “come and look yourself. You will be too
late if you do not make haste. They are parting; they are shaking hands. He
is turning away. Not know Mr Elliot, indeed! You seem to have forgot all
about Lyme.”
To pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, Anne did
move quietly to the window. She was just in time to ascertain that it really
was Mr Elliot, which she had never believed, before he disappeared on one
side, as Mrs Clay walked quickly off on the other; and checking the surprise
which she could not but feel at such an appearance of friendly conference
between two persons of totally opposite interest, she calmly said, “Yes, it is

Mr Elliot, certainly. He has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all,
or I may be mistaken, I might not attend;” and walked back to her chair,
recomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself
well.
The visitors took their leave; and Charles, having civilly seen them off,
and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began with—
“Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like. I have
been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night. A’n’t I a good
boy? I know you love a play; and there is room for us all. It holds nine. I
have engaged Captain Wentworth. Anne will not be sorry to join us, I am
sure. We all like a play. Have not I done well, mother?”
Mrs Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect
readiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when Mary
eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming—
“Good heavens, Charles! how can you think of such a thing? Take a box
for to-morrow night! Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden Place
to-morrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet Lady
Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr Elliot, and all the principal family
connexions, on purpose to be introduced to them? How can you be so
forgetful?”
“Phoo! phoo!” replied Charles, “what’s an evening party? Never worth
remembering. Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he had
wanted to see us. You may do as you like, but I shall go to the play.”
“Oh! Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you
promised to go.”
“No, I did not promise. I only smirked and bowed, and said the word
‘happy.’ There was no promise.”
“But you must go, Charles. It would be unpardonable to fail. We were
asked on purpose to be introduced. There was always such a great
connexion between the Dalrymples and ourselves. Nothing ever happened
on either side that was not announced immediately. We are quite near
relations, you know; and Mr Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly to
be acquainted with! Every attention is due to Mr Elliot. Consider, my
father’s heir: the future representative of the family.”

“Don’t talk to me about heirs and representatives,” cried Charles. “I am
not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising sun. If
I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it scandalous to go
for the sake of his heir. What is Mr Elliot to me?” The careless expression
was life to Anne, who saw that Captain Wentworth was all attention,
looking and listening with his whole soul; and that the last words brought
his enquiring eyes from Charles to herself.
Charles and Mary still talked on in the same style; he, half serious and
half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she, invariably
serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make it known that,
however determined to go to Camden Place herself, she should not think
herself very well used, if they went to the play without her. Mrs Musgrove
interposed.
“We had better put it off. Charles, you had much better go back and
change the box for Tuesday. It would be a pity to be divided, and we should
be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father’s; and I am sure
neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play, if Miss Anne could not
be with us.”
Anne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so for
the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying—
“If it depended only on my inclination, ma’am, the party at home
(excepting on Mary’s account) would not be the smallest impediment. I
have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to change
it for a play, and with you. But, it had better not be attempted, perhaps.” She
had spoken it; but she trembled when it was done, conscious that her words
were listened to, and daring not even to try to observe their effect.
It was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day; Charles
only reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting that he
would go to the play to-morrow if nobody else would.
Captain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fire-place; probably
for the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a station,
with less bare-faced design, by Anne.
“You have not been long enough in Bath,” said he, “to enjoy the evening
parties of the place.”

“Oh! no. The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no card-
player.”
“You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like cards; but time
makes many changes.”
“I am not yet so much changed,” cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she
hardly knew what misconstruction. After waiting a few moments he said,
and as if it were the result of immediate feeling, “It is a period, indeed!
Eight years and a half is a period.”
Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne’s imagination
to ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he had
uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to make use of
the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her companions to lose no
time, lest somebody else should come in.
They were obliged to move. Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and
tried to look it; but she felt that could Henrietta have known the regret and
reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing to quit the room,
she would have found, in all her own sensations for her cousin, in the very
security of his affection, wherewith to pity her.
Their preparations, however, were stopped short. Alarming sounds were
heard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir
Walter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill. Anne
felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms of the
same. The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was over, hushed
into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk, to meet the
heartless elegance of her father and sister. How mortifying to feel that it
was so!
Her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular. Captain Wentworth was
acknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before.
She even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once. Elizabeth
was, in fact, revolving a great measure. The sequel explained it. After the
waste of a few minutes in saying the proper nothings, she began to give the
invitation which was to comprise all the remaining dues of the Musgroves.
“To-morrow evening, to meet a few friends: no formal party.” It was all said
very gracefully, and the cards with which she had provided herself, the
“Miss Elliot at home,” were laid on the table, with a courteous,
comprehensive smile to all, and one smile and one card more decidedly for

Captain Wentworth. The truth was, that Elizabeth had been long enough in
Bath to understand the importance of a man of such an air and appearance
as his. The past was nothing. The present was that Captain Wentworth
would move about well in her drawing-room. The card was pointedly given,
and Sir Walter and Elizabeth arose and disappeared.
The interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation
returned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not to
Anne. She could think only of the invitation she had with such astonishment
witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been received; a manner of
doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than gratification, of polite
acknowledgement rather than acceptance. She knew him; she saw disdain in
his eye, and could not venture to believe that he had determined to accept
such an offering, as an atonement for all the insolence of the past. Her
spirits sank. He held the card in his hand after they were gone, as if deeply
considering it.
“Only think of Elizabeth’s including everybody!” whispered Mary very
audibly. “I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted! You see he
cannot put the card out of his hand.”
Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself into
a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she might
neither see nor hear more to vex her.
The party separated. The gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies
proceeded on their own business, and they met no more while Anne
belonged to them. She was earnestly begged to return and dine, and give
them all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long exerted that at
present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for home, where she might be
sure of being as silent as she chose.
Promising to be with them the whole of the following morning, therefore,
she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to Camden Place,
there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the busy arrangements of
Elizabeth and Mrs Clay for the morrow’s party, the frequent enumeration of
the persons invited, and the continually improving detail of all the
embellishments which were to make it the most completely elegant of its
kind in Bath, while harassing herself with the never-ending question, of
whether Captain Wentworth would come or not? They were reckoning him
as certain, but with her it was a gnawing solicitude never appeased for five

minutes together. She generally thought he would come, because she
generally thought he ought; but it was a case which she could not so shape
into any positive act of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the
suggestions of very opposite feelings.
She only roused herself from the broodings of this restless agitation, to
let Mrs Clay know that she had been seen with Mr Elliot three hours after
his being supposed to be out of Bath, for having watched in vain for some
intimation of the interview from the lady herself, she determined to mention
it, and it seemed to her there was guilt in Mrs Clay’s face as she listened. It
was transient: cleared away in an instant; but Anne could imagine she read
there the consciousness of having, by some complication of mutual trick, or
some overbearing authority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half
an hour) to his lectures and restrictions on her designs on Sir Walter. She
exclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature:—
“Oh! dear! very true. Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I met
with Mr Elliot in Bath Street. I was never more astonished. He turned back
and walked with me to the Pump Yard. He had been prevented setting off
for Thornberry, but I really forget by what; for I was in a hurry, and could
not much attend, and I can only answer for his being determined not to be
delayed in his return. He wanted to know how early he might be admitted
to-morrow. He was full of ‘to-morrow,’ and it is very evident that I have
been full of it too, ever since I entered the house, and learnt the extension of
your plan and all that had happened, or my seeing him could never have
gone so entirely out of my head.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

One day only had passed since Anne’s conversation with Mrs Smith; but
a keener interest had succeeded, and she was now so little touched by Mr
Elliot’s conduct, except by its effects in one quarter, that it became a matter
of course the next morning, still to defer her explanatory visit in Rivers
Street. She had promised to be with the Musgroves from breakfast to
dinner. Her faith was plighted, and Mr Elliot’s character, like the Sultaness
Scheherazade’s head, must live another day.
She could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather
was unfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends’ account,
and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to attempt the walk.
When she reached the White Hart, and made her way to the proper
apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time, nor the first to
arrive. The party before her were, Mrs Musgrove, talking to Mrs Croft, and
Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth; and she immediately heard that
Mary and Henrietta, too impatient to wait, had gone out the moment it had
cleared, but would be back again soon, and that the strictest injunctions had
been left with Mrs Musgrove to keep her there till they returned. She had
only to submit, sit down, be outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged
at once in all the agitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting
a little before the morning closed. There was no delay, no waste of time.
She was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such
happiness, instantly. Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain
Wentworth said—
“We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you will
give me materials.”
Materials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly
turning his back to them all, was engrossed by writing.

Mrs Musgrove was giving Mrs Croft the history of her eldest daughter’s
engagement, and just in that inconvenient tone of voice which was perfectly
audible while it pretended to be a whisper. Anne felt that she did not belong
to the conversation, and yet, as Captain Harville seemed thoughtful and not
disposed to talk, she could not avoid hearing many undesirable particulars;
such as, “how Mr Musgrove and my brother Hayter had met again and
again to talk it over; what my brother Hayter had said one day, and what Mr
Musgrove had proposed the next, and what had occurred to my sister
Hayter, and what the young people had wished, and what I said at first I
never could consent to, but was afterwards persuaded to think might do
very well,” and a great deal in the same style of open-hearted
communication: minutiae which, even with every advantage of taste and
delicacy, which good Mrs Musgrove could not give, could be properly
interesting only to the principals. Mrs Croft was attending with great good-
humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it was very sensibly. Anne hoped
the gentlemen might each be too much self-occupied to hear.
“And so, ma’am, all these thing considered,” said Mrs Musgrove, in her
powerful whisper, “though we could have wished it different, yet,
altogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for Charles
Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near as bad; and so
we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many
others have done before them. At any rate, said I, it will be better than a
long engagement.”
“That is precisely what I was going to observe,” cried Mrs Croft. “I
would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have
to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long
engagement. I always think that no mutual—”
“Oh! dear Mrs Croft,” cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her
speech, “there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long
engagement. It is what I always protested against for my children. It is all
very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if there is a
certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or even in twelve; but a
long engagement—”
“Yes, dear ma’am,” said Mrs Croft, “or an uncertain engagement, an
engagement which may be long. To begin without knowing that at such a

time there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and
unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can.”
Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt its application to
herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same moment that
her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table, Captain
Wentworth’s pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening,
and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one quick, conscious
look at her.
The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths, and
enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary practice as
had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing distinctly; it
was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in confusion.
Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left his
seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though it
was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was
inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at her with a smile, and a
little motion of the head, which expressed, “Come to me, I have something
to say;” and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which denoted the
feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was, strongly enforced the
invitation. She roused herself and went to him. The window at which he
stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were
sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth’s table, not very near. As
she joined him, Captain Harville’s countenance re-assumed the serious,
thoughtful expression which seemed its natural character.
“Look here,” said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a
small miniature painting, “do you know who that is?”
“Certainly: Captain Benwick.”
“Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But,” (in a deep tone), “it was not
done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at Lyme,
and grieving for him? I little thought then—but no matter. This was drawn
at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in
compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it
home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for
another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I
hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another.
He undertakes it;” (looking towards Captain Wentworth,) “he is writing

about it now.” And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding,
“Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!”
“No,” replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. “That I can easily believe.”
“It was not in her nature. She doted on him.”
“It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved.”
Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, “Do you claim that for your
sex?” and she answered the question, smiling also, “Yes. We certainly do
not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than
our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and
our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a
profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into
the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken
impressions.”
“Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men
(which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to Benwick.
He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at
the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle,
ever since.”
“True,” said Anne, “very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we say
now, Captain Harville? If the change be not from outward circumstances, it
must be from within; it must be nature, man’s nature, which has done the
business for Captain Benwick.”
“No, no, it is not man’s nature. I will not allow it to be more man’s nature
than woman’s to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved.
I believe the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames
and our mental; and that as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings;
capable of bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather.”
“Your feelings may be the strongest,” replied Anne, “but the same spirit
of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most tender. Man is
more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains
my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay, it would be too hard upon
you, if it were otherwise. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers
enough to struggle with. You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to
every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither

time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be hard, indeed”
(with a faltering voice), “if woman’s feelings were to be added to all this.”
“We shall never agree upon this question,” Captain Harville was
beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain
Wentworth’s hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room. It was nothing
more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled at finding
him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to suspect that the pen
had only fallen because he had been occupied by them, striving to catch
sounds, which yet she did not think he could have caught.
“Have you finished your letter?” said Captain Harville.
“Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes.”
“There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready whenever you are. I am in
very good anchorage here,” (smiling at Anne), “well supplied, and want for
nothing. No hurry for a signal at all. Well, Miss Elliot,” (lowering his
voice), “as I was saying, we shall never agree, I suppose, upon this point.
No man and woman would, probably. But let me observe that all histories
are against you—all stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as
Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the
argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not
something to say upon woman’s inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk
of woman’s fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by
men.”
“Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in
books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story.
Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in
their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything.”
“But how shall we prove anything?”
“We never shall. We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a
point. It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof. We each
begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias
build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own
circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps those very cases which strike
us the most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought forward without
betraying a confidence, or in some respect saying what should not be said.”

“Ah!” cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, “if I could but
make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his
wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long
as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, ‘God knows whether we ever
meet again!’ And then, if I could convey to you the glow of his soul when
he does see them again; when, coming back after a twelvemonth’s absence,
perhaps, and obliged to put into another port, he calculates how soon it be
possible to get them there, pretending to deceive himself, and saying, ‘They
cannot be here till such a day,’ but all the while hoping for them twelve
hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them
wings, by many hours sooner still! If I could explain to you all this, and all
that a man can bear and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures
of his existence! I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!”
pressing his own with emotion.
“Oh!” cried Anne eagerly, “I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you,
and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue the
warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should deserve
utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy
were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable of everything great
and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every important
exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as—if I may be
allowed the expression—so long as you have an object. I mean while the
woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my
own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of
loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.”
She could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was
too full, her breath too much oppressed.
“You are a good soul,” cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her
arm, quite affectionately. “There is no quarrelling with you. And when I
think of Benwick, my tongue is tied.”
Their attention was called towards the others. Mrs Croft was taking
leave.
“Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe,” said she. “I am
going home, and you have an engagement with your friend. To-night we
may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party,” (turning to
Anne). “We had your sister’s card yesterday, and I understood Frederick

had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are disengaged, Frederick,
are you not, as well as ourselves?”
Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could
not or would not answer fully.
“Yes,” said he, “very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall soon
be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a minute. I know
you will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your service in half a minute.”
Mrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter with
great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which
shewed impatience to be gone. Anne knew not how to understand it. She
had the kindest “Good morning, God bless you!” from Captain Harville, but
from him not a word, nor a look! He had passed out of the room without a
look!
She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had
been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it was
himself. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and
instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a letter from
under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing
entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again
out of the room, almost before Mrs Musgrove was aware of his being in it:
the work of an instant!
The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond
expression. The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to “Miss A. E.—,”
was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed
to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also addressing her! On
the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her.
Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense. Mrs
Musgrove had little arrangements of her own at her own table; to their
protection she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had occupied,
succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes
devoured the following words:

“I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by
such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I
am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that
such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to

you again with a heart even more your own than when you
almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that
man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier
death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been,
weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You
alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and
plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have
understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days,
could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have
penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant
hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your
voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they
would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature!
You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true
attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most
fervent, most undeviating, in

F. W.

“I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or
follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will
be enough to decide whether I enter your father’s house this
evening or never.”

Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half an hour’s solitude
and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten minutes only which
now passed before she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her
situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity. Every moment rather
brought fresh agitation. It was overpowering happiness. And before she was
beyond the first stage of full sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all
came in.
The absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an
immediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more. She began not
to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead indisposition and
excuse herself. They could then see that she looked very ill, were shocked
and concerned, and would not stir without her for the world. This was
dreadful. Would they only have gone away, and left her in the quiet

possession of that room it would have been her cure; but to have them all
standing or waiting around her was distracting, and in desperation, she said
she would go home.
“By all means, my dear,” cried Mrs Musgrove, “go home directly, and
take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening. I wish Sarah was
here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself. Charles, ring and order a
chair. She must not walk.”
But the chair would never do. Worse than all! To lose the possibility of
speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet,
solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him)
could not be borne. The chair was earnestly protested against, and Mrs
Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having assured herself
with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the case; that Anne had not
at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow on her head; that she was
perfectly convinced of having had no fall; could part with her cheerfully,
and depend on finding her better at night.
Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said—
“I am afraid, ma’am, that it is not perfectly understood. Pray be so good
as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party
this evening. I am afraid there had been some mistake; and I wish you
particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth, that we
hope to see them both.”
“Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word. Captain
Harville has no thought but of going.”
“Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will
you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see them
both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me.”
“To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville
anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne’s message. But indeed, my dear,
you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I’ll
answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say.”
Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to
damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however.
Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power
to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary

vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go
home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she
could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a
gunsmith’s, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but
gratitude apparent.
They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of
familiar sound, gave her two moments’ preparation for the sight of Captain
Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass
on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to
receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now
glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked
by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said—
“Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or
farther up the town?”
“I hardly know,” replied Captain Wentworth, surprised.
“Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place?
Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place,
and give Anne your arm to her father’s door. She is rather done for this
morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that
fellow’s in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he
is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible
moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance.
By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine,
which you shot with one day round Winthrop.”
There could not be an objection. There could be only the most proper
alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in
and spirits dancing in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was at the
bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding together: and
soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction
towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power
of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare
it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own
future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and
those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but
which had been followed by so many, many years of division and
estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely

happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected;
more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other’s
character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting.
And there, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group
around them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers,
flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those
retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those explanations
of what had directly preceded the present moment, which were so poignant
and so ceaseless in interest. All the little variations of the last week were
gone through; and of yesterday and to-day there could scarcely be an end.
She had not mistaken him. Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding
weight, the doubt, the torment. That had begun to operate in the very hour
of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short suspension, to
ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in everything he had said and
done, or omitted to say and do, in the last four-and-twenty hours. It had
been gradually yielding to the better hopes which her looks, or words, or
actions occasionally encouraged; it had been vanquished at last by those
sentiments and those tones which had reached him while she talked with
Captain Harville; and under the irresistible governance of which he had
seized a sheet of paper, and poured out his feelings.
Of what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified. He
persisted in having loved none but her. She had never been supplanted. He
never even believed himself to see her equal. Thus much indeed he was
obliged to acknowledge: that he had been constant unconsciously, nay
unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her, and believed it to be done.
He had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; and he
had been unjust to her merits, because he had been a sufferer from them.
Her character was now fixed on his mind as perfection itself, maintaining
the loveliest medium of fortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to
acknowledge that only at Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and
only at Lyme had he begun to understand himself. At Lyme, he had received
lessons of more than one sort. The passing admiration of Mr Elliot had at
least roused him, and the scenes on the Cobb and at Captain Harville’s had
fixed her superiority.
In his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove (the
attempts of angry pride), he protested that he had for ever felt it to be

impossible; that he had not cared, could not care, for Louisa; though till that
day, till the leisure for reflection which followed it, he had not understood
the perfect excellence of the mind with which Louisa’s could so ill bear a
comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold it possessed over his own. There,
he had learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of principle and the
obstinacy of self-will, between the darings of heedlessness and the
resolution of a collected mind. There he had seen everything to exalt in his
estimation the woman he had lost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the
folly, the madness of resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain
her when thrown in his way.
From that period his penance had become severe. He had no sooner been
free from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of Louisa’s
accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he had begun to
feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.
“I found,” said he, “that I was considered by Harville an engaged man!
That neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual
attachment. I was startled and shocked. To a degree, I could contradict this
instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others might have felt the same—
her own family, nay, perhaps herself—I was no longer at my own disposal. I
was hers in honour if she wished it. I had been unguarded. I had not thought
seriously on this subject before. I had not considered that my excessive
intimacy must have its danger of ill consequence in many ways; and that I
had no right to be trying whether I could attach myself to either of the girls,
at the risk of raising even an unpleasant report, were there no other ill
effects. I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences.”
He found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that
precisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at all, he
must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him were what
the Harvilles supposed. It determined him to leave Lyme, and await her
complete recovery elsewhere. He would gladly weaken, by any fair means,
whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might exist; and he went,
therefore, to his brother’s, meaning after a while to return to Kellynch, and
act as circumstances might require.
“I was six weeks with Edward,” said he, “and saw him happy. I could
have no other pleasure. I deserved none. He enquired after you very

particularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little suspecting that
to my eye you could never alter.”
Anne smiled, and let it pass. It was too pleasing a blunder for a reproach.
It is something for a woman to be assured, in her eight-and-twentieth year,
that she has not lost one charm of earlier youth; but the value of such
homage was inexpressibly increased to Anne, by comparing it with former
words, and feeling it to be the result, not the cause of a revival of his warm
attachment.
He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindness of his own pride,
and the blunders of his own calculations, till at once released from Louisa
by the astonishing and felicitous intelligence of her engagement with
Benwick.
“Here,” said he, “ended the worst of my state; for now I could at least put
myself in the way of happiness; I could exert myself; I could do something.
But to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for evil, had been
dreadful. Within the first five minutes I said, ‘I will be at Bath on
Wednesday,’ and I was. Was it unpardonable to think it worth my while to
come? and to arrive with some degree of hope? You were single. It was
possible that you might retain the feelings of the past, as I did; and one
encouragement happened to be mine. I could never doubt that you would be
loved and sought by others, but I knew to a certainty that you had refused
one man, at least, of better pretensions than myself; and I could not help
often saying, ‘Was this for me?’”
Their first meeting in Milsom Street afforded much to be said, but the
concert still more. That evening seemed to be made up of exquisite
moments. The moment of her stepping forward in the Octagon Room to
speak to him: the moment of Mr Elliot’s appearing and tearing her away,
and one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or
increasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy.
“To see you,” cried he, “in the midst of those who could not be my well-
wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling, and feel
all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match! To consider it as
the certain wish of every being who could hope to influence you! Even if
your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent, to consider what powerful
supports would be his! Was it not enough to make the fool of me which I
appeared? How could I look on without agony? Was not the very sight of

the friend who sat behind you, was not the recollection of what had been,
the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immoveable impression of
what persuasion had once done—was it not all against me?”
“You should have distinguished,” replied Anne. “You should not have
suspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different. If I
was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to
persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I
thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here. In marrying a
man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred, and all duty
violated.”
“Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus,” he replied, “but I could not. I
could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of your
character. I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in
those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under year after year. I
could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who
had been influenced by any one rather than by me. I saw you with the very
person who had guided you in that year of misery. I had no reason to
believe her of less authority now. The force of habit was to be added.”
“I should have thought,” said Anne, “that my manner to yourself might
have spared you much or all of this.”
“No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to
another man would give. I left you in this belief; and yet, I was determined
to see you again. My spirits rallied with the morning, and I felt that I had
still a motive for remaining here.”
At last Anne was at home again, and happier than any one in that house
could have conceived. All the surprise and suspense, and every other
painful part of the morning dissipated by this conversation, she re-entered
the house so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some momentary
apprehensions of its being impossible to last. An interval of meditation,
serious and grateful, was the best corrective of everything dangerous in
such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her room, and grew steadfast
and fearless in the thankfulness of her enjoyment.
The evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company
assembled. It was but a card party, it was but a mixture of those who had
never met before, and those who met too often; a commonplace business,
too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne had never found

an evening shorter. Glowing and lovely in sensibility and happiness, and
more generally admired than she thought about or cared for, she had
cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature around her. Mr Elliot was
there; she avoided, but she could pity him. The Wallises, she had
amusement in understanding them. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret—
they would soon be innoxious cousins to her. She cared not for Mrs Clay,
and had nothing to blush for in the public manners of her father and sister.
With the Musgroves, there was the happy chat of perfect ease; with Captain
Harville, the kind-hearted intercourse of brother and sister; with Lady
Russell, attempts at conversation, which a delicious consciousness cut
short; with Admiral and Mrs Croft, everything of peculiar cordiality and
fervent interest, which the same consciousness sought to conceal; and with
Captain Wentworth, some moments of communications continually
occurring, and always the hope of more, and always the knowledge of his
being there.
It was in one of these short meetings, each apparently occupied in
admiring a fine display of greenhouse plants, that she said—
“I have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially to judge of the
right and wrong, I mean with regard to myself; and I must believe that I was
right, much as I suffered from it, that I was perfectly right in being guided
by the friend whom you will love better than you do now. To me, she was in
the place of a parent. Do not mistake me, however. I am not saying that she
did not err in her advice. It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice
is good or bad only as the event decides; and for myself, I certainly never
should, in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice. But I
mean, that I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done otherwise,
I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement than I did even
in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my conscience. I have
now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in human nature, nothing to
reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a strong sense of duty is no bad
part of a woman’s portion.”
He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her,
replied, as if in cool deliberation—
“Not yet. But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time. I trust to
being in charity with her soon. But I too have been thinking over the past,
and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one

person more my enemy even than that lady? My own self. Tell me if, when
I returned to England in the year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and
was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written to you, would you have
answered my letter? Would you, in short, have renewed the engagement
then?”
“Would I!” was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.
“Good God!” he cried, “you would! It is not that I did not think of it, or
desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I was proud,
too proud to ask again. I did not understand you. I shut my eyes, and would
not understand you, or do you justice. This is a recollection which ought to
make me forgive every one sooner than myself. Six years of separation and
suffering might have been spared. It is a sort of pain, too, which is new to
me. I have been used to the gratification of believing myself to earn every
blessing that I enjoyed. I have valued myself on honourable toils and just
rewards. Like other great men under reverses,” he added, with a smile. “I
must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook
being happier than I deserve.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

Who can be in doubt of what followed? When any two young people take
it into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to carry
their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little
likely to be necessary to each other’s ultimate comfort. This may be bad
morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be truth; and if such parties
succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and an Anne Elliot, with the
advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness of right, and one independent
fortune between them, fail of bearing down every opposition? They might
in fact, have borne down a great deal more than they met with, for there was
little to distress them beyond the want of graciousness and warmth. Sir
Walter made no objection, and Elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold
and unconcerned. Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand
pounds, and as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him,
was no longer nobody. He was now esteemed quite worthy to address the
daughter of a foolish, spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle or
sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which Providence had
placed him, and who could give his daughter at present but a small part of
the share of ten thousand pounds which must be hers hereafter.
Sir Walter, indeed, though he had no affection for Anne, and no vanity
flattered, to make him really happy on the occasion, was very far from
thinking it a bad match for her. On the contrary, when he saw more of
Captain Wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight, and eyed him well, he
was very much struck by his personal claims, and felt that his superiority of
appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her superiority of rank;
and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name, enabled Sir Walter at last
to prepare his pen, with a very good grace, for the insertion of the marriage
in the volume of honour.
The only one among them, whose opposition of feeling could excite any
serious anxiety was Lady Russell. Anne knew that Lady Russell must be

suffering some pain in understanding and relinquishing Mr Elliot, and be
making some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do justice to
Captain Wentworth. This however was what Lady Russell had now to do.
She must learn to feel that she had been mistaken with regard to both; that
she had been unfairly influenced by appearances in each; that because
Captain Wentworth’s manners had not suited her own ideas, she had been
too quick in suspecting them to indicate a character of dangerous
impetuosity; and that because Mr Elliot’s manners had precisely pleased her
in their propriety and correctness, their general politeness and suavity, she
had been too quick in receiving them as the certain result of the most
correct opinions and well-regulated mind. There was nothing less for Lady
Russell to do, than to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and
to take up a new set of opinions and of hopes.
There is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment of
character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in others can
equal, and Lady Russell had been less gifted in this part of understanding
than her young friend. But she was a very good woman, and if her second
object was to be sensible and well-judging, her first was to see Anne happy.
She loved Anne better than she loved her own abilities; and when the
awkwardness of the beginning was over, found little hardship in attaching
herself as a mother to the man who was securing the happiness of her other
child.
Of all the family, Mary was probably the one most immediately gratified
by the circumstance. It was creditable to have a sister married, and she
might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the connexion,
by keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and as her own sister must be
better than her husband’s sisters, it was very agreeable that Captain
Wentworth should be a richer man than either Captain Benwick or Charles
Hayter. She had something to suffer, perhaps, when they came into contact
again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of seniority, and the mistress of
a very pretty landaulette; but she had a future to look forward to, of
powerful consolation. Anne had no Uppercross Hall before her, no landed
estate, no headship of a family; and if they could but keep Captain
Wentworth from being made a baronet, she would not change situations
with Anne.

It would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied with her
situation, for a change is not very probable there. She had soon the
mortification of seeing Mr Elliot withdraw, and no one of proper condition
has since presented himself to raise even the unfounded hopes which sunk
with him.
The news of his cousin Anne’s engagement burst on Mr Elliot most
unexpectedly. It deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his best hope
of keeping Sir Walter single by the watchfulness which a son-in-law’s rights
would have given. But, though discomfited and disappointed, he could still
do something for his own interest and his own enjoyment. He soon quitted
Bath; and on Mrs Clay’s quitting it soon afterwards, and being next heard of
as established under his protection in London, it was evident how double a
game he had been playing, and how determined he was to save himself
from being cut out by one artful woman, at least.
Mrs Clay’s affections had overpowered her interest, and she had
sacrificed, for the young man’s sake, the possibility of scheming longer for
Sir Walter. She has abilities, however, as well as affections; and it is now a
doubtful point whether his cunning, or hers, may finally carry the day;
whether, after preventing her from being the wife of Sir Walter, he may not
be wheedled and caressed at last into making her the wife of Sir William.
It cannot be doubted that Sir Walter and Elizabeth were shocked and
mortified by the loss of their companion, and the discovery of their
deception in her. They had their great cousins, to be sure, to resort to for
comfort; but they must long feel that to flatter and follow others, without
being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state of half enjoyment.
Anne, satisfied at a very early period of Lady Russell’s meaning to love
Captain Wentworth as she ought, had no other alloy to the happiness of her
prospects than what arose from the consciousness of having no relations to
bestow on him which a man of sense could value. There she felt her own
inferiority very keenly. The disproportion in their fortune was nothing; it
did not give her a moment’s regret; but to have no family to receive and
estimate him properly, nothing of respectability, of harmony, of good will to
offer in return for all the worth and all the prompt welcome which met her
in his brothers and sisters, was a source of as lively pain as her mind could
well be sensible of under circumstances of otherwise strong felicity. She
had but two friends in the world to add to his list, Lady Russell and Mrs

Smith. To those, however, he was very well disposed to attach himself.
Lady Russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, he could now value
from his heart. While he was not obliged to say that he believed her to have
been right in originally dividing them, he was ready to say almost
everything else in her favour, and as for Mrs Smith, she had claims of
various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently.
Her recent good offices by Anne had been enough in themselves, and
their marriage, instead of depriving her of one friend, secured her two. She
was their earliest visitor in their settled life; and Captain Wentworth, by
putting her in the way of recovering her husband’s property in the West
Indies, by writing for her, acting for her, and seeing her through all the petty
difficulties of the case with the activity and exertion of a fearless man and a
determined friend, fully requited the services which she had rendered, or
ever meant to render, to his wife.
Mrs Smith’s enjoyments were not spoiled by this improvement of
income, with some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such
friends to be often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail
her; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have bid
defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity. She might have
been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be happy. Her spring of
felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her friend Anne’s was in the
warmth of her heart. Anne was tenderness itself, and she had the full worth
of it in Captain Wentworth’s affection. His profession was all that could
ever make her friends wish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all
that could dim her sunshine. She gloried in being a sailor’s wife, but she
must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if
possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national
importance.

Finis

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