PAGE 1

2       LOS = "'abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz"
3       PUNCTS = ' .,?;:-)]"!' "'"
4       &TRIM = &ANCHOR = 1
     *  &TRACE = 50 ; TRACE(.S1); TRACE(.S2); TRACE(.S1A)
5      HPAT = RTAB(1) . S1 '-' ; LPAT1 = NOTANY(LOS)
7      LPAT2 = ( SPAN(LOS) SPAN(PUNCTS) ) . S1A
     *
8      S1 = INPUT   :F(NO_INPUT)
9      LN = 1
10   S2 S2 = INPUT  :F(E_O_I)
11     LN = LN + 1
12          REVERSE(S1) '-' NOTANY('-')   :F(NO_HYPHEN)
13     S1 HPAT     :F(NO_HYPHEN)
14     S2 LPAT1      :S(MISTAKE)
15     S2 LPAT2 =   :F(ERROR)
16     S1 = S1 S1A
17     TERMINAL = LN ' : ' S1
18   NO_HYPHEN
19     OUTPUT = S1 ; S1 = S2  :(S2)
21   MISTAKE  S1 = S1 '-'     :(NO_HYPHEN)
22   NO_INPUT TERMINAL = OUTPUT = "NO INPUT FILE SUPPLIED"  :(END)
23   ERROR    TERMINAL = OUTPUT = "SOMETHING WRONG AT LINE " LN ; &DUMP = 1
25   E_O_I    TERMINAL = LN ' LINES PROCESSED '
26   END



<T NORTHANGER ABBEY><V I><C I>
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy,
would have supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation
in life, the character of her father and mother, her own
person and disposition, were all equally against her. Her father
was a clergyman, without being neglected, or poor, and a very
respectable man, though his name was Richard--and he had
never been handsome. He had a considerable independence,
besides two good livings--and he was not in the least addicted
to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful
plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable,
with a good constitution. She had three sons before
Catherine was born; and instead of dying in bringing the
latter into the world, as any body might expect, she still lived
on--lived to have six children more--to see them growing up
around her and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family of
around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family of
ten children will be always called a fine family, where there
are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the
Morlands had little other right to the word, for they were in
general very plain, and Catherine, for many years of her life,
as plain as any. She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin
without colour, dark lank hair, and strong features ;--so much
for her person ;--and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed
 her mind. She was fond of all boys' plays, and greatly preferred
cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments
 of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or
watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden;
 and if she gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure
 of mischief--at least so it was conjectured from her always
preferring those which she was forbidden to take.--Such were
 her propensities--her abilities were quite as extraordinary.
She never could learn or nderstand any thing before she was
 taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often inattentive
and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three
 months in teaching her only to repeat the "Beggar's Petition ;'
 and after all, her next sister, Sally, could say it better than she
did. Not that Catherine was always stupid,--by no means;
she learnt the fable of "The Hare and many Friends,' as
quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wished her to learn
music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was
very fond oftinkling the keys ofthe old forlorn spinnet; so, at
 eight years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not
bear it ;--and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters
being accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste,
allowed her to leave off. The day which dismissed the musicmaster
was one of the happiest of Catherine's life. Her taste
for drawing was not superior; though whenever she could
obtain the outside of a letter from her mother, or seize upon
any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in
that way by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens,
all very much like one another.--Writing and accounts
she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her
proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked
her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange,
unaccountable character!--for with all these symptoms of
profligacy at ten years old, she had neither a bad heart nor
a bad temper; was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome
and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions
of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement
and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the
world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the
house.
Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances
were mending; she began to curl her hair and long for
balls; her complexion improved, her features were softened
by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more animation,
and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way
to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew
smart; she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearin her
father and mother remark on her personal improvement.
"Catherine grows quite a good-looking girl,--she is almost
pretty to day,' were words which caught her ears now and
then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost
pretty, is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has
been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life, than a
beauty from her cradle can ever receive.
Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see
her children every thing they ought to be; but her time was
so much occupied in lying-in and teaching the little ones, that
her elder daughters were inevitably left to shift for themselves ;
and it was not very wonderful that Catherine, who had
by nature nothing heroic about her, should prefer cricket,
base ball, riding on horseback, and running about the country
at the age of fourteen, to books--or at least books of information--
for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could
be gained from them, provided they were all story and no
reflection, she had never any objection to books at all. But
from fifteen to seventeen she was in training for a heroine ; she
read all such works as heroines must read to supply their
memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and
so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.
From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
"bear about the mockery of woe.'
From Gray, that
"Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
"And waste its fragrance on the desert air.'
From Thompson, that
-- "It is a delightful task
"To teach the young idea how to shoot.'
And from Shakspeare she gained a great store of information--
amongst the rest, that
-- "Trifles light as air,
"Are to the jealous, confirmation strong,
"As proofs of Holy Writ.'
That
"The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
"In corporal suff-erance feels a pang as great
"As when a giant dies.'
And that a young woman in love always looks
-- "like Patience on a monument
"Smiling at Grief.'
So far her improvement was sufficient--and in many other
points she came on exceedingly well; for though she could not
write sonnets, she brought herself to read them; and though
there seemed no chance of her throwing a whole party into
raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own composition,
she could listen to other people's performance with
very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil--
 she had no notion of drawing--not enough even to attempt
a sketch of her lover's profile, that she might be detected in
the design. There she fell miserably short of the true heroic
height. At present she did not know her own poverty, for she
had no lover to pourtray. She had reached the age of seventeen,
without having seen one amiable youth who could call
forth her sensibility ; without having inspired one real passion,
and without having excited even any admiration but what
was very moderate and very transient. This was strange
indeed! But strange things may be generally accounted for
if their cause be fairly searched out. There was not one lord
in the neighbourhood; no--not even a baronet. There was
not one family among their acquaintance who had reared and
supported a boy accidentally found at their door--not one
young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no
ward, and the squire of the parish no children.
But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness
of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something
must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.
Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about
Fullerton, the village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived,
was ordered to Bath for the benefit of a gouty constitution;--
and his lady, a good-humoured woman, fond of Miss Morland,
and probably aware that if adventures will not befal a young
lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad, invited
her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,
and Catherine all happiness.
<C II>
IN addition to what has been already said of Catherine
Morland's personal and mental endowments, when about to
be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks'
residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the reader's more
certain information, lest the following pages should otherwise
fail of giving any idea of what her character is meant to be;
that her heart was affectionate, her disposition cheerful and
open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her manners
just removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her
person pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty--and her
mind about as ignorant and uninformed as the female mind
at seventeen usually is.
When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal
anxiety of Mrs. Morland will be naturally supposed to be most
severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her
beloved Catherine from this terrific separation must oppress
her heart with sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day
or two of their being together; and advice of the most important
and applicable nature must of course flow from her wise
at such a moment, relieve the fulness of her heart. Who would
not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so little oflords and
baronets, that she entertained no notion of their general mischievousness,
and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her
daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined
to the following points. "I beg, Catherine, you will
always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you
come from the Rooms at night; and I wish you would try to
keep some account of the money you spend ;--I will give you
this little book on purpose.
Sally, or rather Sarah, (for what young lady of common
gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering her
name' as far as she can?) must from situation be at this time
the intimate friend and confidante of her sister. It is remarkable,
however, that she neither insisted on Catherine's writing
by every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the
character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of every
interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Every
thing indeed relative to this important journey was done, on
the part of the Morlands, with a degree of moderation and
composure, which seemed rather consistent with the common
feelings of common life, than with the refined susceptibilities,
the tender emotions which the first separation of a heroine
from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead of
giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting
an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only
ten guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it.
Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place,
and the journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness
and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests
befriended them, nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to
the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred than a fear on Mrs.
Allen's side, ofhaving once left her clogs behind her at an inn,
and that fortunately proved to be groundless.
They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight;--
her eyes were here, there, every where, as they approached its
fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through those
streets which conducted them to the hotel. She was come to be
happy, and she felt happy already.
They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteneystreet.

It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen,
that the reader may be able to judge, in what manner her
actions will hereafter tend to promote the general distress of
the work, and how she will, probably, contribute to reduce
poor Catherine to all the desperate wretchedness of which
a last volume is capable--whether by her imprudence,
vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting her letters,
ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.
Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females,
whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at
there being any men in the world who could like them well
enough to marry them. She had neither beauty, genius
accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a
great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn
of mind, were all that could account for her being the choice
of a sensible, intelligent man, like Mr. Allen. In one respect
she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public,
being as fond of going every where and seeing every thing herself
as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She
had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine's
entree into life could not take place till after three or four days
had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her
chaperon was provided with a dress of the newest fashion.
Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all
these matters were arranged, the important evening came
which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms." Her hair was
cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care,
and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite
as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped
at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for
admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but
she did not depend on it.
Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing, that they did not enter
 the ball-room till late. The season was full, the room crowded,
and the two ladies squeezed in as well as they could. As for
Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room, and left
them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the
safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protege'e,
Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the
door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow;
Catherine, however, kept close at her side, and linked her
arm too firmly within her friend's to be torn asunder by any
common effort of a struggling assembly. But to her utter
amazement she found that to proceed along the room was by
no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it
seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had
imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should
easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect
convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though
by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room,
their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the
dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they
moved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued
exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves
at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here
there was something less of crowd than below; and hence
Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company
beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through
them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time
that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but
she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all
that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every
now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear,--I wish you
could get a partner.' For some time her young friend felt
obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so
often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew
tired at last, and would thank her no more.
They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of
the eminence they had so laboriously gained.--Every body
was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like
the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment
--she was tired of being continually pressed against by people,
the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest,
and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted, that
she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the
exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and
when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the
awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to
claim, no gentleman to assist them.--They saw nothing of
Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more
eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end
a table, at which a large party were already placed, without
having any thing to do there, or any body to speak to, except
each other.
Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were
seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would
have been very shocking to have it torn,' said she, "would not
it ?--It is such a delicate muslin.--For my part I have not seen
any thing I like so well in the whole room, I assure you.'
"How uncomfortable it is,' whispered Catherine, 'not to
have a single acquaintance here !'
"Yes, my dear,' replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity,
"it is very uncomfortable indeed.'
'What shall we do ?--The gentlemen and ladies at this table
look as if they wondered why we came here--we seem forcing
ourselves into their party.'
"Aye, so we do.--That is very disagreeable. I wish we had
a large acquaintance here.'
"I wish we had any;--it would be somebody to go to.'
"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would
join them directly. The Skinners were here last year--I wish
they were here now.'
"Had not we better go away as it is ?--Here are no tea things
for us, you see.'
"No more there are, indeed.--How very provoking! But
I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such
a crowd! How is my head,' my dear?--Somebody gave me
a push that has hurt it I am afraid.'
"No, indeed, it looks very nice.--But, dear Mrs. Allen, are
you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of
people ? I think you must know somebody.'
'I don't upon my word--I wish I did. I wish I had a large
acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get
you a partner.--I should be so glad to have you dance. There
goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has
got on !--How old fashioned it is ! Look at the back.'
After some time they received an offer of tea from one of
their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced
a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it,
which was the only time that any body spoke to them during
the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen
when the dance was over.
"Well, Miss Morland,' said he, directly, "I hope you have
had an agreeable ball.'
"Very agreeable indeed,' she replied, vainly endeavouring
to hide a great yawn.
"I wish she had been able to dance,' said his wife, "I wish
we could have got a partner for her.--I have been saying how
glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead
of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she
might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has
not had a partner!'
"We shall do better another evening I hope,' was Mr.
Allen's consolation.
The company began to disperse when the dancing was over
--enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in
some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine, who had
not yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the
evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by
removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her
charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not
been near her before. Not one, however, started with rapturous
wonder on beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran
round the room, nor was she once called a divinity' by any
body. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the
company only seen her three years before, they would now
have thought her exceedingly handsome.
She was looked at however, and with some admiration ; for,
in her own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be
a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect ; she immediately
thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it before--
her humble vanity was contented--she felt more obliged to
the two young men for this simple praise than a true quality
heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of
her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with every
body, and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.
<C III>
EVERY morning now brought its regular duties;--shops
were to be visited ; some new part ofthe town to be looked at;
and the Pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up
and down for an hour, looking at every body and speaking to
no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance in Bath was still
uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after every
fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing
nobody at all.
They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms ; and here
fortune was more favourable to our heroine. The master of
the ceremonies introduced to her a very gentlemanlike young
man as a partner;--his name was Tilney. He seemed to be
about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing
countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite
handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and
Catherine felt herselfin high luck. There was little leisure for
speaking while they danced; but when they were seated at
tea,she found him as agreeable as she had already given him
credit for being. He talked with fluency and spirit--and there
was an archness and pleasantry in his manner which interested,
though it was hardly understood by her. After chatting some
time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects
around them, he suddenly addressed her with--'I have hitherto
been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions ofa partner
here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in
Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have
been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and
how you like the place altogether. I have been very negligent--
but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these particulars?
If you are I will begin directly.'
'You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.'
"No trouble I assure you, madam.' Then forming his
features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice,
he added, with a simpering air, "Have you been long in Bath,
madam .?
"About a week, sir,' replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.
'Really !' with affected astonishment.
 "Why should you be surprized, sir?'
"Why, indeed!' said he, in his natural tone--'but some
emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprize
is more easily assumed, and not less reasonable than any
other.--Now let us go on. Were you never here before,
madam ?'
"Never, sir.'
"Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?'
"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.'
"Have you been to the theatre ?'
"Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.'
"To the concert ?'
"Yes, sir, on Wednesday.'
"And are you altogether pleased with Bath ?'
"Yes--I like it very well.'
"Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational
again.'
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she
might venture to laugh.
"I see what you think of me,' said he gravely--"I shall make
but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow.'
"My journal!'
"Yes, I know exactly what you will say : Friday, went to the
Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue
trimmings--plain black shoes--appeared to much advantage;
but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who
would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his
nonsense.'
"Indeed I shall say no such thing.'
"Shall I tell you what you ought to say?'
"If you please.'
"I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced
by Mr. King;" had a great deal of conversation with him--
seems a most extraordinary genius--hope I may know more
of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say.'
"But, perhaps, I keep no journal.'
"Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not
sitting by you. These are points in which a doubt is equally
possible. Not keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to
understand the tenour of your life in Bath without one? How
are the civilities and compliments of every day to be related
as they ought to be, unless noted down every evening in a
journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,
and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your
hair to be described in all their diversities, without having
constant recourse to a journal?--My dear madam, I am not
so ignorant of young ladies' ways as you wish to believe me;
it is this delightful habit of journalizing which largely contributes
to form the easy style of writing for which ladies are
so generally celebrated. Every body allows that the talent of
writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have
done something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted
by the practice of keeping a journal.'
"I have sometimes thought,' said Catherine, doubtingly,
"whether ladies do write so much better letters than gentlemen !
That is--I should not think the superiority was always
on our side.'
"As far as I have had opportunity ofjudging, it appears to
me that the usual style of letter-writing among women is
faultless, except in three particulars.'
"And what are they ?'
'A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops,
and a very frequent ignorance of grammar.'
"Upon my word ! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming
the compliment. You do not think too highly of us in
that way.'
"I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women
write better letters than men, than that they sing better duets,
or draw better landscapes. In every power, of which taste is
the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly divided between
the sexes.'
They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen:--"My dear Catherine,'
said she, "do take this pin out ofmy sleeve; I am afraid
it has torn a hole already; I shall be quite sorry ifit has, for
this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine shillings
a yard.'
 "That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,'
said Mr. Tilney, looking at the muslin.
 "Do you understand muslins, sir ?'
"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am
allowed to be an excellent judge; and my sister has often
trusted me in the choice of a gown. I bought one for her the
other day, and it was pronounced to be a prodigious bargain
by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a yard for it,
and a true Indian muslin.'
Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. "Men commonly
take so little notice of those things," said she: "I can never get
Mr. Allen to know one of my gowns from another. You must
be a great comfort to your sister, sir.'
"I hope I am, madam.'
"And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown ?'
"It is very pretty, madam,' said he, gravely examining it;
"but I do not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.'
"How can you,' said Catherine, laughing, 'be so --' she
had almost said, strange.
"I am quite of your opinion, sir,' replied Mrs. Allen: "and
so I told Miss Morland when she bought it.'
"But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some
account or other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for
a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak.--Muslin can never be
said to be wasted. I have heard my sister say so forty times,
when she has been extravagant in buying more than she
wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.'
"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops
here.--We are sadly offin the country; not but what we have
very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go;--eight
miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine, measured nine;
but I am sure it cannot be more than eight; and it is such
a fag--I come back tired to death. Now here one can step out
of doors and get a thing in five minutes.'
Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what
she said; and she kept him on the subject of muslins till the
dancing recommenced. Catherine feared, as she listened to
their discourse, that he indulged himself a little too much
with the foibles of others.--"What are you thinking of so
earnestly?' said he, as they walked back to the ball-room;--
'not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head,
your medltatlons are not satisfactory.'
Catherine coloured, and said, "I was not thinking of any
thing.'
"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told
at once that you will not tell me.'
"Well then, I will not '
"Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am
authorized to tease you on this subject whenever we meet,
and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much.'
They danced again ; and, when the assembly closed, parted,
on the lady's side at least, with a strong inclination for
continuing the acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so
much, while she drank her warm wine and water, and prepared
herself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot
be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight
slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a
celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be
justified in falling in love before the gentleman's love is
declared," it must be very improper that a young lady should
dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to
have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a
dreamer or a lover, had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen's
head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaint--
ance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he
had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner
was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman,
and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire.
<C  IV>
WITH more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to
the Pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing
Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over, and ready
 to meet him with a smilei--but no smile was demanded--Mr.
Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself,
was to be seen in the room at different periods of the
fashionable hours ; crowds of people were every moment passing
in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody
cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was
absent. "What a delightful place Bath is,' said Mrs. Allen, as
they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till
they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any
acquaintance here.'
This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain, that Mrs.
Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed
with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of
nothing we would attain,' as "unwearied diligence our point
would gain ;' and the unwearied diligence with which she had
every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its
just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before
a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had
been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed
her with great complaisance in these words:--"I think,
madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had
the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen ?' This
question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced
her's to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized
the features of a former school-fellow and intimate, whom
she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and
that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great,
as well it might, since they had been contented to know
nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments
on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had
slipped away since they were last together, how little they had
thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see
an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence
as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both
together, far more ready to give than to receive information,
and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs.
Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over
Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated
on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters,--
when she related their different situations and views,--that
John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant-Taylors', and
William at sea,--and all of them more beloved and respected
in their different stations than any other three beings ever
were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar
triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her
friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these
maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery,
which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs.
Thorpe's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.
Here come my dear girls,' cried Mrs.Thorpe, pointing at
three smart looking females, who, arm in arm, were then
moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce
them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is
Isabella, my eldest ; is not she a fine young woman? The others
are very much admired too, but I believe lsabella is the handsomest.'

The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland,
who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise.
The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking
to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud
to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is! '
"The very picture of him indeed !' cried the mother--and
"I should have known her any where for his sister!' was
repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment
Catherine was surprized ; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters
had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr.
James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest
brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of
his own college, of the name of Thorpe ; and that he had spent
the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near
London.
 The whole being explained, many obliging things were said
by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted
with her; of being considered as already friends, through the
friendship of their brothers, &c. which Catherine heard with
pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she
could command ; and, as the first proof of amity, she was soon
invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take
a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with
this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot
Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is
certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.
Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which
the free discussion has generally much to do in perfecting
a sudden intimacy between two young ladies; such as dress,
balls, flirtations, and quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being
four years older than Miss Morland, and at least four years
better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing
such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those
of Tunbridge; its fashions with the fashions of London ; could
rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles oftasteful
attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman
and lady who only smiled on each other; and point out a quiz
through the thickness of a crowd. These powers received due
admiration from Catherine, to whom they were entirely new ;
and the respect which they naturally inspired might have been
too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss
Thorpe's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight
on this acquaintance with her, softened down every feellng
of awe, and left nothing but tender affection. Their increasing
attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen
turns in the pump-room but required, when they all quitted
it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss
Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen's house; and that
they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened
shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that
they should see each other across the theatre at night, and
say their prayers in the same chapel the next morning.
Catherine then ran directly up stairs, and watched Miss
Thorpe's progress down the street from the drawing-room
window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable
air of her figure and dress, and felt grateful, as well
she might, for the chance which had procured her such
a friend.
Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she
was a good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very
indulgent mother. Her eldest daughter had great personal
beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending to be as handsome
as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing in the
same style, did very well.
This brief account of the family is intended to supersede
the necessity of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe
herself, of her past adventures and sufferings, which might
otherwise be expected to occupy the three or four following
chapters; in which the worthlessness of lords and attornies'
might be set forth, and conversations, which had passed
twenty years before, be minutely repeated.
<C  V>
CATHERINE was not so much engaged at the theatre that
evening, in returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe,
though they certainly claimed much of her leisure, as to forget
to look with an inquiring eye for Mr. Tilney in every box
which her eye could reach; but she looked in vain. Mr. Tilney
was no fonder of the play than the Pump-room. She hoped to
be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine
weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she
hardly felt a doubt ofit; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties
every house of its inhabitants, and all the world appears on
such an occasion to walk about and tell their acquaintance
what a charming day it is.
 As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens
eagerly joined each other; and after staying long enough in
the Pump-room to discover that the crowd was insupportable,
and that there was not a genteel face to be seen, which every
body discovers every Sunday throughout the season, they
hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe the fresh air of
better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in arm,
again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved conversation;--
they talked much, and with much enjoyment;
but again was Catherine disappointed in her hope of re-seeing
her partner. He was no where to be met with; every search for
him was equally unsuccessful, in morning lounges or evening
assemblies; neither at the upper nor lower rooms, at dressed
or undressed balls, was he perceivable ; nor among the walkers,
the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His
as not in the Pump-room book, and curiosity could
do no more. He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not
mentioned that his stay would be so short! This sort of
mysteriousness, which is always so becoming in a hero, threw
a fresh grace in Catherine's imagination around his person
and manners, and increased her anxiety to know more of him.
From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been
only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It
was a subject, however, in which she often indulged with her
fair friend, from whom she received every possible encouragement
to continue to think of him; and his impression on her
fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was very
sure that he must be a charming young man; and was equally
sure that he must have been delighted with her dear Catherine,
and would therefore shortly return. She liked him the
better for being a clergyman, "for she must confess herself
very partial to the profession;' and something like a sigh
escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not
demanding the cause of that gentle emotion--but she was not
experienced enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of
friendship, to know when delicate raillery was properly called
for, or when a confidence should be forced.
Mrs. Allen was now quite happy--quite satisfied with Bath.
She had found some acquaintance, had been so lucky too as
to find in them the family ofa most worthy old friend; and,
as the completion of good fortune, had found these friends
by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her daily
expressions were no longer, "I wish we had some acquaintance
in Bath!' They were changed into--"How glad I am we
have met with Mrs. Thorpe!'--and she was as eager in
promoting the intercourse of the two families, as her young
charge and Isabella themselves could be; never satisfied with
the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of Mrs.
Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there
was scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any
esemblance of subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her
children, and Mrs. Allen of her gowns.
The progress of the friendship between Catherine and
Isabella was quick as its beginning had been warm, and they
passed so rapidly through every gradation of Increasing
tenderness, that there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be
given to their friends or themselves. They called each other
by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they
walked, pinned up each other's train for the dance, and were
not to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived
them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting
in defiance of wet and dirt and shut themselves up to read
novels together. Yes, novels;--for I will not adopt that ungenerous
and impolitic custom so common with novel writers,
of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances,
to the number of which they are themselves adding--
joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the
harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting
them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally
take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with
disgust. Alas ! if the heroine of one novel be not patronized by
the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection
 and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the
Reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and
 over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash
with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one
 another; we are an injured body. Although our productions
have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than
those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species
of composition has been so much decried. From pride,
ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our
readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth
 abridger of the History of England," or of the man who
collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton,
 Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a
chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens,--
 there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and
undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the
 performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend
them. "I am no novel reader--I seldom Iook into novels
--Do not imagine that I often read novels--It is really very
well for a novel.'--Such is the common cant.--"And what are
you reading, Miss --?' "Oh ! it is only a novel!' replies the
young lady; while she lays down her book with affected indiference,
or momentary shame.--'It is only Cecilia, or Camilla,
or Belinda;'' or, in short, only some work in which the
greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most
thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation
of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour
are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language. Now,
ad the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the
Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she
ave produced the book, and told its name; though the
chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that
voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner
would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of
its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable
circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation,
which no longer concern any one living; and their
language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable
idea of the age that could endure it.
<C  VI>
THE following conversation, which took place between the
two friends in the Pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance
of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very
warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality
of thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness
of that attachment.
They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived
nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally
was--'My dearest creature, what can have made you so late ?
I have been waiting for you at least this age !'
"Have you, indeed!--I am very sorry for it; but really
I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope
you have not been here long?'
"Oh ! these ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this
half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of
the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say
to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this
morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery,
and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know,
I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in
Milsom-street just now--very like yours, only with coquelicoti
ribbons instead of green ; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest
Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this
morning?--Have you gone on with Udolpho?'
"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got
to the black veil.'
"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell
you what is behind the black veil for the world ! Are not you
wild to know?'
"Oh! yes, quite; what can it be?--But do not tell me--I
would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a
skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am
delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life
in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you,
I would not have come away from it for all the world.'
"Dear creature ! how much I am obliged to you; and when
you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian' together;
and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same
kind for you.'
"Have you, indeed ! How glad I am !--What are they all?'
"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my
pocket-book. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious
Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell,
Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last
us some time.'
"Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they
are all horrid ?'
"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss
Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the
world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss
Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting
herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as
beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not
admiring her !--I scold them all amazingly about it.'
'Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?'
"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those
who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people
by halves, it is not my nature. My attachments are always
excessively strong. I told Capt. Hunt at one of our assemblies
this winter, that if he was to tease me all night, I would not
dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be
as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real
friendship you know, and I am determined to shew them the
difference. Now, if I were to hear any body speak slightingly
of you, I should fire up in a moment:--but that is not at all
likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite
with the men.'
"Oh! dear,' cried Catherine, colouring, "how can you
say so ?'
"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which
is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there
is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh ! I must tell you,
that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking
at you so earnestly--I am sure he Is In love wlth you.'
Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed.
'It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are
indifferent to every body's admiration, except that of one
gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you--
speaking more seriously)--your feelings are easily understood.
Where the heart is really attached, I know very well
how little one can be pleased with the attention of any body
else. Every thing is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not
relate to the beloved object ! I can perfectly comprehend your
feelings.'
"But you should not persuade me that I think so very
much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him
again.'
"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it.
I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so.'
"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that
I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have
Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable.
Oh ! the dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there
must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it.'
"It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho
before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.'
"No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison
herself; but new books do not fall in our way.'
"Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book,
is it not?--I remember Miss Andrews could not get through
the first volume.'
"It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very
entertaining.'
"Do you indeed !--you surprize me; I thought it had not
been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled
what to wear on your head to-night? I am determined at all
events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of
that sometimes you know.'
"But it does not signify if they do;' said Catherine, very
innocently.
"Signify ! Oh, heavens ! I make it a rule never to mind what
they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do
not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance '
"Are they?--Well, I never observed that. They always
behave very well to me.'
"Oh! they give themselves such airs. They are the most
conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so
much importance !--By the bye, though I have thought of it
a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your
favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark
or fair?'
"I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something
between both, I think. Brown--not fair and not very
dark.'
"Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot
your description of Mr. Tilney;--""a brown skin, with dark
eyes, and rather dark hair."--Well, my taste is different.
I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion--do you know--I
like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me,
if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering
that description.'
"Betray you !--What do you mean ?'
"Nay do not distress me. I believe I have said too much.
Let us drop the subject.
Catherine, in some amazement, complied ; and after remaining
a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to
what interested her at that time rather more than any thing
else in the world, Laurentina's skeleton; when her friend prevented
her, by saying,--"For Heaven's sake ! let us move away
from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious
young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They
really put me qulte out ot countenance. Let us go and look at
the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.'
Away they walked to the book ; and while Isabella examined
the names, it was Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings
of these alarming young men.
"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are
not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know ifthey are
coming. I am determined I will not look up.'
In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure
assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen
had just left the Pump-room.
"And which way are they gone?' said Isabella, turning
hastily round. "One was a very good-looking young man.'
"They went towards the churchyard.'
"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And
now, what say you to going to Edgar's Buildings with me,
and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to
see it.'
' .h .- , ., ?-I ,,,,d "0 I,' he added, "perhaps we
Catherine readily agreed. "Only,' she added, "perhaps we
may overtake the two young men.
"Oh! never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by
them presently, and I am dying to shew you my hat.'
"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger
of our seeing them at all.'
"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you.
I have no notion of treating men with such respect. That is
the way to spoil them.'
Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning;
and therefore, to shew the independence of Miss Thorpe, and
her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off immediately
as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two young men.
<C  VII>
HALF a minute conducted them through the Pump-yard to
the archway opposite Union-passage;' but here they were
stopped. Every body acquainted with Bath may remember
the difficulties of crossing Cheap-street at this point; it is
indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so unfortunately
connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the
principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which
parties of ladies, however important their business, whether
in quest of pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case)
of young men, are not detained on one side or other by
carriages, horsemen, or carts. This evil had been felt and
lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella since her
residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lamentit
once more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to
Union-passage, and within view of the two gentlemen who
were proceeding through the crowds, and threading the
gutters of that interesting alley, they were prevented crossing
by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad pavement
by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence
that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion,
and his horse.
"Oh, these odious gigs!' said Isabella, looking up, "how
I detest them.' But this detestation, though so just, was of
short duration, for she looked again and exclaimed, "Delightful!
Mr. Morland and my brother !'
"Good heaven ! 'tis James !' was uttered at the same moment
by Catherine; and, on catching the young men's eyes, the
horse was immediately checked with a violence which almost
threw him on his haunches, and the servant having now
scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage
was delivered to his care.
Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected,
received her brother with the liveliest pleasure ; and he, being
of a very amiable disposition, and sincerely attached to her,
gave every proof on his side of equal satisfaction, which he
could have leisure to do, while the bright eyes ofMiss Thorpe
were incessantly challenging his notice; and to her his devoirs
were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and embarrassment
which might have informed Catherine, had she been more
expert in the developement of other people's feelings, and less
simply engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her
friend quite as pretty as she could do herself.
John Thorpe, who in the mean time had been giving orders
about the horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly
received the amends which were her due; for while he slightly
and carelessly touched the hand oflsabella, on her he bestowed
a whole scrape' and half a short bow. He was a stout young
man of middling height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful
form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he
wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman
unless he were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent
where he might be allowed to be easy. He took out his watch:
"How long do you think we have been running it from
Tetbury, Miss Morland ?'
"I do not know the distance.' Her brother told her that it
was twenty-three miles.
"Three-and-twenty!' cried Thorpe; "five-and-twenty if it
is an inch.' Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of
road-books, innkeepers, and milestones; but his friend disregarded
them all; he had a surer test of distance. "I know it
must be five-and-twenty,' said he, "by the time we have been
doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of the inn-yard
at Tetbury as the town-clock struck eleven; and I defy any
man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an
hour in harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five.'
"You have lost an hour,' said Morland; "it was only ten
o'clock when we came from Tetbury.'
"Ten o'clock ! it was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every
stroke. This brother of yours would persuade me out of my
senses, Miss Morland; do but look at my horse; did you ever
see an animal so made for speed in your life?' (The servant
had just mounted the carriage and was driving off.) 'Such true
blood ! Three hours and a half indeed coming only three-andtwenty
miles! look at that creature, and suppose it possible
if you can.'
"He does look very hot to be sure.'
"Hot! he had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot
Church: but look at his forehand;" look at his loins; only see
how he moves; that horse cannot go less than ten miles an
hour: tie his legs and he will get on. What do you think of my
gig, Miss Morland? a neat one, is not it? Well hung; town
built ; I have not had it a month. It was built for a Christchurch
man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran it
a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done
with it. I happened just then to be looking out for some light
thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined on
a curricle too ; but I chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge,
as he was driving into Oxford, last term: "'Ah ! Thorpe,'' said
he, ""do you happen to want such a little thing as this? it is
a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.'' ""Oh !
d--,'' said I, ""I am your man; what do you ask ?'' And how
much do you think he did, Miss Morland?'
"I am sure I cannot guess at all.'
'Curricle-hung you see; seat, trunk, sword-case splashinboard,"
lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the ironwork
as good as new, or better. He asked fifty guineas ; I closed
with him directly, threw down the money, and the carriage
"And I am sure,' said Catherine, "I know so little of such
things that I cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.'
"Neither one nor t'other- I might have got it for less I dare
say; but I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.'
"That was very good-natured of you,' said Catherine, quite
pleased.
'Oh! d-- it, when one has the means of doing a kind
thing by a friend, I hate to be pitiful.'
An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of
the young ladies; and, on finding whither they were going,
it was decided that the gentlemen should accompany them to
Edgar's Buildings, and pay their respects to Mrs. Thorpe.
James and Isabella led the way; and so well satisfied was the
latter with her lot, so contentedly was she endeavouring to
ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double recommendation
of being her brother's friend, and her friend's
brother, so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that,
though they overtook and passed the two offending young
men in Milsom-street, she was so far from seeking to attract
their notice, that she looked back at them only three times.
John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few
minutes' silence, renewed the conversation about his gig--
"You will find, however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned
a cheap thing by some people, for I might have sold it for ten
guineas more the next day; Jackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at
once; Morland was with me at the time.'
"Yes,' said Morland, who overheard this; "but you forget
that your horse was included.'
"My horse! oh, d-- it! I would not sell my horse for a
hundred. Are you fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland ?'
"Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in
one; but I am particularly fond of it.'
"I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.'
"Thank you,' said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt
of the propriety of accepting such an offer.
"I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow.'
"Thank you; but will not your horse want rest ?'
"Rest! he has only come three-and-twenty miles to-day;
all nonsense; nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing
knocks them up so soon. No, no; I shall exercise mine at the
average of four hours every day while I am here.'
"Shall you indeed !' said Catherine very seriously, "that will
be forty miles a day.'
"Forty ! aye fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up
Lansdown to-morrow ; mind, I am engaged.'
"How delightful that will be !' cried Isabella, turning round ;
"my dearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid,
brother, you will not have room for a third.'
"A third indeed ! no, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my
sisters about; that would be a good joke, faith ! Morland must
take care of you.'
This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other
two; but Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the
result. Her companion's discourse now sunk from its hitherto
animated pitch, to nothing more than a short decisive sentence
of praise or condemnation on the face of every woman they
met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as she
could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful
female mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in
opposition to that of a self-assured man, especially where
the beauty of her own sex is concerned, ventured at length
to vary the subject by a question which had been long uppermost
in her thoughts; it was, "Have you ever read Udolpho,
Mr. Thorpe ?'
"Udolpho! Oh, Lord! not I; I never read novels; I have
something else to do.'
Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize
for her question, but he prevented her by saying, 'Novels are
all so full of nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably
decent one come out since Tom Jones, except the Monk;'
I read that t'other day; but as for all the others, they are the
stupidest things in creation.'
"I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it
is so very interesting.'
"Not I, faith ! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliff's;
her novels are amusing enough ; they are worth reading ; some
fun and nature in them.'
"Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliff,' said Catherine,
with some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
"No sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking
of that other stupid book, written by that woman they
make such a fuss about, she who married the French emigrant.'
"I suppose you mean Camilla ?'
"Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff!--An old man
playlng at see-saw! I took up the first volume once, and
looked it over, but I soon found it would not do; indeed
I guessed what sort of stuffit must be before I saw it: as soon
as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was sure I should
never be able to get through it.'
"I have never read it.'
"You had no loss I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense
you can imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old
man's playing at see-saw and learning Latin;' upon my soul
there is not.'
This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost
on poor Catherine, brought them to the door ofMrs. Thorpe's
lodgings, and the feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced
reader of Camilla gave way to the feelings of the dutiful and
affectionate son, as they met Mrs. Thorpe, who had descried
them from above, in the passage. "Ah, mother! how do you
do?' said he, giving her a hearty shake ofthe hand: "where did
you get that quiz of a hat, it makes you look like an old witch ?
Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so
you must look out for a couple ofgood beds some where near.'
And this address seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of
the mother's heart, for she received him with the most
delighted and exulting affection. On his two younger sisters
he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal tenderness,
for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that they
both looked very ugly.
These manners did not please Catherine; but he was
James's friend and Isabella's brother; and her judgment was
further bought off by Isabella's assuring her, when they withdrew
to see the new hat, that John thought her the most
charming girl in the world, and by John's engaging her before
they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she been
older or vainer, such attacks might have done little ; but, where
youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon
steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being called the
most charming girl in the world, and of being so very early
engaged as a partner; and the consequence was, that, when
the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with the Thorpes, set
off to walk together to Mr. Allen's, and James, as the door was
closed on them, said, "Well, Catherine, how do you like my
friend Thorpe ?' instead of answering, as she probably would
have done, had there been no friendship and no flattery in the
case, "I do not like him at all;' she directly replied, "I like him
very much; he seems very agreeable.
 "He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of
a rattle; but that will recommend him to your sex I believe :
and how do you like the rest ofthe family?'
'Very, very much indeed : Isabella particularly.'
"I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of
young woman I could wish to see you attached to; she has so
much good sense, and is so thoroughly unaffected and amiable ;
I always wanted you to know her; and she seems very fond of
you. She said the highest things in your praise that could possibly
be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss Thorpe even you,
Catherine,' taking her hand with affection, "may be proud of.'
"Indeed I am,' she replied; "I love her exceedingly, and
am delighted to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned
any thing of her, when you wrote to me after your
visit there.'
"Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope
you will be a great deal together while you are in Bath. She is
a most amiable girl; such a superior understanding ! How fond
all the family are of her; she is evidently the general favourite ;
and how much she must be admired in such a place as this--
is not she?'
"Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the
prettiest girl in Bath.'
"I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is
a better judge of beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you
whether you are happy here, my dear Catherine; with such
a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it would be
impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens I am sure
are very kind to you ?'
"Yes, very kind ; I never was so happy before; and now you
are come it will be more delightful than ever; how good it is
of you to come so far on purpose to see me.'
James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his
conscience for accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, "
Indeed, Catherine, I love you dearly.'
Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and
sisters, the situation of some, the growth of the rest, and
other family matters, now passed between them, and continued,
with only one small digression on James's part,
in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteneystreet,
where he was welcomed with great kindness by
Mr. and Mrs. Allen, invited by the former to dine with
them, and summoned by the latter to guess the price and
weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet. A preengagement
in Edgar's Buildings prevented his accepting
the invitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry
away as soon as he had satisfied the demands of the
other. The time of the two parties uniting in the Octagon
Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was then left
to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened imagination
over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly
concerns of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs.
Allen's fears on the delay of an expected dress-maker,
and having only one minute in sixty to bestow even on
the reflection of her own felicity, in being already engaged
for the evening.
<C  VIII>
IN spite of Udolpho and the dress-maker, however, the party
from Pulteney-street reached the Upper-rooms in very good
time. The Thorpes and James Morland were there only two
minutes before them; and Isabella having gone through the
usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the most smiling
and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown, and
envying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperons,
arm in arm, into the ball-room, whispering to each other
whenever a thought occurred, and supplying the place of
many ideas by a squeeze of the hand or a smile of affection.
The dancing began within a few minutes after they were
seated; and James, who had been engaged quite as long as his
sister, was very importunate with Isabella to stand up; but
John was gone into the card-room to speak to a friend, and
nothing, she declared, should induce her to join the set
before her dear Catherine could join it too: "I assure you,'
said she, 'I would not stand up without your dear sister for all
the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated the
whole evening.' Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude,
and they continued as they were for three minutes
longer, when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the
other side of her, turned again to his sister and whispered,
"My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you, your brother
is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know you will not mind
my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a moment,
and then you may easily find me out.' Catherine, though a
little disappointed, had too much good-nature to make any
opposition, and the others rising up, Isabella had only time
to press her friend's hand and say, 'Good bye, my dear love,'
before they hurried off. The younger Miss Thorpes being also
dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and
Mrs. Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not
help being vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for
she not only longed to be dancing, but was likewise aware that,
as the real dignity of her situation could not be known, she
was sharing with the scores of other young ladies still sitting
down all the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced
in the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of intamy
while her heart is all purity, her actions all innocence, and the
misconduct of another the true source of her debasement, is
one of those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the
heroine's life, and her fortitude under it what particularly
dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too ; she suffered,
but no murmur passed her lips.
From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end
of ten minutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr.
Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney, within three yards ofthe place where
they sat; he seemed to be moving that way, but he did not see
her, and therefore the smile and the blush, which his sudden
reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away without sullying
her heroic importance. He looked as handsome and as
lively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable
and pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm,
and whom Catherine immediately guessed to be his sister;
thus unthinkingly throwing away a fair opportunity of considering
him lost to her for ever, by being married already. But
guided only by what was simple and probable, it had never
entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he had
not behaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom
she had been used ; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had
acknowledged a sister. From these circumstances sprang the
instant conclusion of his sister's now being by his side; and
therefore instead ofturning ofa deathlike paleness, and falling
in a fit on Mrs. Allen's bosom, Catherine sat erect, in the perfect
use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little redder than usual.
 Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though
slowly, to approach, were immediately preceded by a lady,
an acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe; and this lady stopping to
speak to her, they, as belonging to her, stopped likewise, and
Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney's eye, instantly received from
him the smiling tribute of recognition. She returned it with
pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to
her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. "
I am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed; I was
afraid you had left Bath.' He thanked her for her fears, and
said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very morning
after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.
"Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again,
for it is just the place for young people--and indeed for every
body else too. I tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of
it, that I am sure he should not complain, for it is so very agreeable
a place, that it is much better to be here than at home at
this dull time of year. I tell him he is quite in luck to be sent
here for his health.'
'And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like
the place, from finding it of service to him.'
'Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will.--A neighbour
of ours, Dr. Skinner, was here for his health last winter,
and came away quite stout.'
"That circumstance must give great encouragement.'
'Yes, sir--and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three
months; so I tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get
away.'
Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe
to Mrs. Allen, that she would move a little to accommodate
Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney with seats, as they had agreed
to join their party. This was accordingly done, Mr. Tilney
still continuing standing before them ; and after a few minutes
consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This
compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification
to the lady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her
sorrow on the occasion so very much as if she really felt it,
that had Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards been half
a minute earlier, he might have thought her sufferings rather
too acute. The very easy manner in which he then told her that
he had kept her waiting, did not by any means reconcile her
more to her lot; nor did the particulars which he entered into
while they were standing up, of the horses and dogs of the
friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of
terriers between them, interest her so much as to prevent her
looking very often towards that part of the room where she
had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear Isabella, to whom she particularly
longed to point out that gentleman, she could see
nothing. They were in different sets. She was separated from
all her party, and away from all her acquaintance;--one
mortification succeeded another, and from the whole she
deduced this useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to
a ball, does not necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment
of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this,
she was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and
turning round, perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her,
attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman. "I beg your pardon,
Miss Morland,' said she, "for this liberty,--but I cannot any
how get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure
you would not have the least objection to letting in this young
lady by you.' Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any
creature in the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine.
The young ladies were introduced to each other, Miss Tilney
expressing a proper sense of such goodness, Miss Morland
with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light of the
obligation ; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having so respectably
settled her young charge, returned to her party.
Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very
agreeable countenance; and her air, though it had not all the
decided pretension, the resolute stilishness of Miss Thorpe's,
had more real elegance. Her manners shewed good sense and
good breeding; they were neither shy, nor affectedly open;
and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and at
a ball, without wanting to fix the attention of every man near
her, and without exaggerated feelings of extatic delight or
inconceivable vexation on every little trifling occurrence.
Catherine, interested at once by her appearance and her
relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous of being acquainted
with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she could
think of any thing to say, and had courage and leisure for saying
it. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy
intimacy, by the frequent want of one or more of these
requisites, prevented their doing more than going through the
first rudiments of an acquaintance, by informing themselves
how well the other liked Bath, how much she admired its buildings
and surrounding country, whether she drew, or played or
sang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback.
The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine
found her arm gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in
great spirits exclaimed--"At last I have got you. My dearest
creature, I have been looking for you this hour. What could
induce you to come into this set, when you knew I was in the
other? I have been quite wretched without you.'
"My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you ?
I could not even see where you were.'
"So I told your brother all the time--but he would not
believe me. Do go and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I--but
all in vain--he would not stir an inch. Was not it so, Mr.
Morland ? But you men are all so immoderately lazy ! I have
been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you
would be quite amazed.--You know I never stand upon
ceremony with such people.'
"Look at that young lady with the white beads round her
head,' whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James
--"It is Mr. Tilney's sister.'
"Oh! heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her this
moment. What a delightful girl! I never saw any thing half so
beautiful! But where is her all-conquering brother? Is he
in the room? Point him out to me this instant,ifhe is. I die
to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen. We are not
talking about you.'
"But what is all this whispering about? What is going on ?'
"There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such
restless curiosity ! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed!
--'tis nothing. But be satisfied, for you are not to know any
thing at all of the matter.'
"And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?'
"Well, I declare I never knew any thing like you. What can
it signify to you, what we are talking of? Perhaps we are talking
about you, therefore I would advise you not to listen, or
you may happen to hear something not very agreeable.'
In this common-place chatter, which lasted some time, the  ,
original subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though
Catherine was very well pleased to have it dropped for a while,
she could not avoid a little suspicion at the total suspension
of all Isabella's impatient desire to see Mr. Tilney. When the
orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would have led hls
fair partner away, but she resisted. "I tell you, Mr. Morland,'
she cried, "I would not do such a thing for all the world. How
can you be so teasing ; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what
your brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him
again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and
entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the
place, if we were not to change partners.'
"Upon my honour,' said James, "in these public assemblies,
it is as often done as not.'
"Nonsense, how can you say so ? But when you men have
a point to carry, you never stick at any thing. My sweet
Catherine, do support me, persuade your brother how impossible
it is. Tell him, that it would quite shock you to see me
do such a thing; now would not it?'
"No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much
better change.'
"There,' cried Isabella, "you hear what your sister says, and
yet you will not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my
fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come
along, my dearest Catherine, for heaven's sake, and stand by
me.' And off they went, to regain their former place. John
Thorpe in the meanwhile, had walked away; and Catherine,
ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating
the agreeable request which had already flattered her once,
made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she
could, in the hope of finding him still with them--a hope
which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been
highly unreasonable. "Well, my dear,' said Mrs. Thorpe,
impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had an agreeable
partner.'
"Very agreeable, madam.'
"I am glad of it, John has charming spirits, has not he?'
"Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear ?' said Mrs. Allen.
"No, where is he ?'
"He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging
about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought
perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you.'
"Where can he be ?' said Catherine, looking round; but she
had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young
lady to the dance.
"Ah! he has got a partner, I wish he had asked you,' said
Mrs. Allen; and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very
agreeable young man.'
"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,' said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; "
I must say it, though I am his mother, that there
is not a more agreeable young man in the world.'
This inapplicable answer might have been too much for
the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen,
for after only a moment's consideration, she said, in a whisper
to Catherine, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of
her son..
Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have
missed by so little the very object she had had in view; and this
persuasion did not incline her to a very gracious reply, when
John Thorpe came up to her soon afterwards, and said, 'Well,
Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it
together again.'
"Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are
over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any
more.'
"Do not you?--then let us walk about and qulz people.
Come along with me, and I will shew you the four greatest
quizzes in the room ; my two younger sisters and their partners.
I have been laughing at them this half hour.'
Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off
to quiz his sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she
found very dull; Mr. Tilney was drawn away from their party
at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss Tilney, though
belonging to it, did not sit near her, and James and Isabella
were so much engaged in conversing together, that the latter
had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile,
one squeeze, and one 'dearest Catherine.'
<C  IX>
THE progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the events
or the evening, was as follows. It appeared first in a general
dissatisfaction with every body about her, while she remained
in the rooms, which speedily brought on considerable weariness
and a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving in
Pulteney-street, took the direction of extraordinary hunger,
and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing
to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for
when there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which
lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived,
in excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The
first wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with
Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to seek her for
that purpose, in the Pump-room at noon." In the Pumproom,
one so newly arrived in Bath must be met with, and that
building she had already found so favourable for the discovery
of female excellence, and the completion of female
intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret discourses and
unlimited confidence, that she was most reasonably encouraged
to expect another friend from within its walls. Her plan for
the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book
after breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the
same employment till the clock struck one ; and from habitude
very little incommoded by the remarks and ejaculations of
Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for thinking
were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so she
could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at
her work, ifshe lost her needle or broke her thread, if she heard
a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she
must observe it aloud, whether there were any one at leisure
to answer her or not. At about half past twelve, a remarkably
loud rap drew her in haste to the window, and scarcely had she
time to inform Catherine of there being two open carriages
at the door, in the first only a servant, her brother driving Miss
Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came running up
stairs, calling out, "Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you
been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil
of a coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit
to be got into, and now it is ten thousand to one, but they break
down before we are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs.
Allen? a famous ball last night, was not it? Come, Miss
Morland, be quick, for the others are in a confounded hurry
to be off. They want to get their tumble over.'
"What do you mean?' said Catherine, "where are you all
going to ?'
"Going to ? why, you have not forgot our engagement ! Did
not we agree together to take a drive this morning? What
a head you have ! We are going up Claverton Down.'
"Something was said about it, I remember,' said Catherine,
looking at Mrs. Allen for her opinion; "but really I did not
expect you.'
"Not expect me! that's a good one! And what a dust you
would have made, if I had not come.'
Catherine's silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was
entirely thrown away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the
habit of conveying any expression herself by a look, was not
aware of its being ever intended by any body else; and
Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again could at
that moment bear a short delay in favour ofa drive, and who
thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr.
Thorpe, as Isabella was going at the same time with James,
was therefore obliged to speak plainer. "Well, ma'am, what
do you say to it? Can you spare me for an hour or two?
shall I go ?'
"Do just as you please, my dear,' replied Mrs. Allen, with
the most placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and
ran off to get ready. In a very few minutes she re-appeared,
having scarcely allowed the two others time enough to get
through a few short sentences in her praise, after Thorpe had
procured Mrs. Allen's admiration of his gig ; and then receiving
her friend's parting good wishes, they both hurried down
stairs. "My dearest creature,' cried Isabella, to whom the duty
of friendship immediately called her before she could get into
the carriage, "you have been at least three hours getting ready.
I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last
night. I have a thousand things to say to you; but make haste
and get in, for I long to be off.'
Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too
soon to hear her friend exclaim aloud to James, "What a sweet
girl she is! I quite doat on her.'
"You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,' said Thorpe,
as he handed her in, "if my horse should dance about a little
at first setting off. He will, most likely, give a plunge or two,
and perhaps take the rest for a minute; but he will soon know
his master. He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but there is
no vice in him.'
Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but
it was too late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself
frightened ; so, resigning herselfto her fate, and trusting to the
animal's boasted knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably
down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her. Every thing being
then arranged, the servant who stood at the horse's head was
bid in an important voice "to let him go,' and off they went in
the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper,
or any thing like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an
escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprize; and
her companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple
by assuring her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly
judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the
singular discernment and dexterity with which he had directed
his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering
that with such perfect command of his horse, he should think
it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated
herself sincerely on being under the care of so
excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued
to go on in the same quiet manner, without shewing
the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and
(considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no
means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of
air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild
day of February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of
several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue;--it was
broken by Thorpe's saying very abruptly, "Old Allen is as
rich as a Jew--is not he ?' Catherine did not understand him--
and he repeated his question, adding in explanation, "Old
Allen, the man you are with.'
"Oh ! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.'
"And no children at all?'
"No--not any.'
"A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is
not he?'
"My godfather ! --no.'
"But you are always very much with them.'
"Yes, very much.'
"Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old
fellow enough, and has lived very well in his time, I dare say;
he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink his bottle a-day
now?'
"His bottle a-day!--no. Why should you think of such
a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy
him in liquor last night?'
"Lord help you ! --You women are always thinking of men's
being in liquor. Why you do not suppose a man is overset by
a bottle? I am sure of this--that if every body was to drink
their bottle a-day, there would not be half the disorders in the
world there are now. It would be a famous good thing for
us all.'
"I cannot believe it.'
"Oh! lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is
not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom,
that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help.'
"And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drank
in Oxford.'
"Oxford ! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you.
Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who
goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance,
it was reckoned a remarkable thing at the last party in my
rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five pints a head.
it was looked upon as something out of the common way.
Mine is famous good stuff to be sure. You would not often
meet with any thing like it in Oxford--and that may account
for it. But this will just give you a notion of the general rate
of drinking there.'
"Yes, it does give a notion,' said Catherine, warmly, "and
that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought
you did. However, I am sure James does not drink so much.'
This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering
reply, of which no part was very distinct, except the frequent
exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, which
adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it ended, with rather
a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of wine drank
in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother's
comparative sobriety.
Thorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own
equipage, and she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom
with which his horse moved along, and the ease which his
paces, as well as the excellence of the springs, gave the motion
of the carriage. She followed him in all his admiration as well
as she could. To go before, or beyond him was impossible.
His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity
of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her
power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation,
but she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was
finally settled between them without any difficulty, that his
equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in
England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and
himself the best coachman.--"You do not really think, Mr.
Thorpe,' said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider
the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little
variation on the subject, "that James's gig will break down ?'
"Break down! Oh! lord! Did you ever see such a little
tittuppy thing in your life ? There is not a sound piece of iron
about it. The wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years
at least--and as for the body ! Upon my soul, you might shake
it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish little
ricketty business I ever beheld !--Thank God ! we have got
a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty
thousand pounds.'
"Good heavens !' cried Catherine, quite frightened, "then
pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident
if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and
speak to my brother, and tell him how very unsafe it is.'
 "Unsafe ! Oh, lord ! what is there in that? they will only get
a roll if it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt, it will be
excellent falling. Oh, curse it ! the carriage is safe enough, if
a man knows how to drive it; a thing ofthat sort in good hands
will last above twenty years after it is fairly worm out. Lord
bless you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to
York and back again, without losing a nail.'
Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how
to reconcile two such very different accounts ofthe same thing;
for she had not been brought up to understand the propensities
of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle assertions and
impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. Her own
family were plain matter-of-fact people, who seldom aimed
at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented
with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in
the habit therefore of telling lies to increase their importance,
or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the
next. She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity,
and was more than once on the point of requesting
from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real opinion on the
subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to her
that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making
those things plain which he had before made ambiguous ; and,
joining to this, the consideration, that he would not really
suffer his sister and his friend to be exposed to a danger from
which he might easily preserve them, she concluded at last,
that he must know the carriage to be in fact perfectly safe, and
therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the whole
matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation,
or rather talk, began and ended with himself and
his own concerns. He told her of horses which he had bought
for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in
which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner; of
shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds (though
without having one good shot) than all his companlons
together; and described to her some famous day's sport, with
the foxhounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the
dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman,
and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had
never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly
leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded
had broken the necks of many.
Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself,
and unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought
to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore
with the effusions ofhis endless conceit, ofhis being altogether
completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for he was
Isabella's brother; and she had been assured by James that
his manners would recommend him to all her sex ; but in spite
of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept
over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued
unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteneystreet
again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such
high authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal
pleasure.
When they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, the astonishment
of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was
too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house-
--"Past three o'clock!' it was inconceivable, incredible,
impossible! and she would neither believe her own watch,
nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would believe no
assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced
his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted
a moment longer then, would have been equally inconceivable,
incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over
and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off
so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm;
Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella;
but the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting
voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely
engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding
herself obliged to go directly home.--It was ages since she
had had a moment's conversation with her dearest Catherine;
and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it
appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with
smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter
despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.
Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy
idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with,
"Well, my dear, here you are;' a truth which she had no
greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you
have had a pleasant airing?'
"Yes, ma'am, I thank you ; we could not have had a nicer day.'
"So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all
going.'
"You have seen Mrs. Thorpe then ?'
"Yes, I went to the Pump-room as soon as you were gone,
and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together.
She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this
morning, it is so uncommonly scarce.'
"Did you see any body else ofour acquaintance?'
"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there
we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking
with her.'
"Did you indeed? and did they speak to you?'
"Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an
hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in
a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn,
that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked
to me a great deal about the family.'
"And what did she tell you of them ?'
"Oh ! a vast dealindeed; she hardly talked ofany thing else.'
"Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come
from ?'
"Yes, she did ; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very
good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss
Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were school-fellows;
and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she
married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and
five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all
the clothes after they came from the warehouse.'
"And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath ?'
"Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon
recollection, however, I have a notion they are both dead; at
least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead,
because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very beautiful set
of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her
wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were
put by for her when her mother died.'
"And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son ?'
"I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear;
I have some idea he is; but, however, he is a very fine
young man Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to do very
well.'
Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to
feel that Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that
she was most particularly unfortunate herselfin having missed
such a meeting with both brother and sister. Could she have
foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have persuaded
her to go out with the others; and, as it was, she could only
lament her ill-luck, and think over what she had lost, till it
was clear to her, that the drive had by no means been very
pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable,
<C  X>
THE Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands, all met in the evening
at the theatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together,
there was then an opportunity for the latter to utter some few
of the many thousand things which had been collecting within
her for communication, in the immeasurable length of time
which had divided them.--"Oh, heavens ! my beloved Catherine,
have I got you at last?' was her address on Catherine's
entering the box and sitting by her. "Now, Mr. Morland,' for
he was close to her on the other side, "I shall not speak another
word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to
expect it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this
long age? but I need not ask you, for you look delightfully.
You really have done your hair in a more heavenly style than
ever : you mischievous creature, do you want to attract every
body? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you
already; and as for Mr. Tilney--but that is a settled thing--
even your modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his
coming back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh! what would not
I give to see him ! I really am quite wild with impatience. My
mother says he is the most delightful young man in the world;
she saw him this morning you know: you must introduce him
to me. Is he in the house now ?--Look about for heaven's sake !
I assure you, I can hardly exist till I see him.'
"No,' said Catherine, "he is not here; I cannot see him any
where.'
"Oh, horrid ! am I never to be acquainted with him? How
do you like my gown? I think it does not look amiss; the
sleeves were entirely my own thought. Do you know I get so
immoderately sick of Bath ; your brother and I were agreeing
this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few
weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found
out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country
to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the
same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point
in which we differed; I would not have had you by for the
world; you are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have
made some droll remark or other about it.'
"No, indeed I should not.'
"Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you
know yourself. You would have told us that we seemed born
for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would
have distressed me beyond conception; my cheeks would
have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by
for the world.'
"Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so
improper a remark upon any account ; and besides, I am sure
it would never have entered my head.'
Isabella smiled incredulously, and talked the rest of the
evening to James.
Catherine's resolution ofendeavouring to meet Miss Tilney
again continued in full torce the next mornlng; and till the
usual moment of going to the Pump-room, she felt some alarm
from the dread of a second prevention. But nothing of that
 aIl three set off in good time for the Pump-room, where the
ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.
AIlen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen
to talk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts
of their newspapers; and the ladies walked about together,
noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet in the
room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended by
James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a
quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual
place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant
attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating
themselves from the rest of their party, they walked in that
manner for some tl-me, till Catherine began to doubt the
happiness of a situation which confining her entirely to her
friend and brother, gave her very little share in the notice of
either. They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion
or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed
in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so
much laughter, that though Catherine's supporting opinion
was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was
never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the
subject. At length however she was empowered to disengage
herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking
to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the
room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with
a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have
had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment
ofthe day before. Miss Tilney met her with great
civility, returned her advances with equal good will, and they
continued talking together as long as both parties remained
in the room; and though in all probability not an observation
was made, nor an expression used by either which had not
been made and used some thousands of times before, under
that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being
spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit,
might be something uncommon.--
"How well your brother dances !' was an artless exclamation
of Catherine's towards the close of their conversation,
which at once surprized and amused her companion.
"Henry!' she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance
very well.'
"He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was
engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But
I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe.' Miss
Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think,' added Catherine
after a moment's silence, "how surprized I was to see him
again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.'
"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was
in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage
lodgings for us.'
"That never occurred to me; and of course not seeing him
any where, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young
lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?'
"Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.'
"I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her
pretty ?'
"Not very.'
"He never comes to the Pump-room, I suppose ?'
"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my
father.'
Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if
she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure ofseeing
you again soon,' said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion
ball to-morrow ?'
"Perhaps we-- yes, I think we certainly shall.'
"I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.'--This civility
was duly returned; and they parted--on Miss Tilney's side
with some knowledge of her new acquaintance's feelings, and
on Catherine's, without the smallest consciousness of having
explained them.
She went home very happy. The morning had answered all
her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the
object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what
head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief
concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times
frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often
destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her
great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the
Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on
Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her
tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time
prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would
 have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon,
from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother
rather than a great aunt might have warned her, for man only
can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown.
It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could
they be made to understand how little the heart of man is
affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it
is biassed by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible
of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,
the mull or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction
alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman
will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough
for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety
will be most endearing to the latter.--But not one of these
grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.
She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings
very different from what had attended her thither the Monday
before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to
Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest
he should engage her again; for though she could not, dared
not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to
dance, her wishes, hopes and plans all centered in nothing less,
Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical
moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known
the same agitation, All have been, or at least all have believed
themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of some one
whom they wished to avoid ; and all have been anxious for the
attentions of some one whom they wished to please. As soon
as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine's agony began ;
she fidgetted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself
as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to
her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the
country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the
Tilneys. "Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,' whispered
Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother
again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he
ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep
us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come
to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment.'
Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The
others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she
gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however,
to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes intently fixed on
her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in supposing
that among such a crowd they should even meet with the
Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her
mind, when she suddenly found herself addressed and again
solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling
eyes and ready motion she granted his request, and with how
pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set, may
be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed, so
narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately
on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had
sought her on purpose!--it did not appear to her that life
could supply any greater felicity.
Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession
of a place, however, when her attention was claimed
by John Thorpe, who stood behind her. "Hey-day, Miss
Morland !' said he, "what is the meaning of this ?--I thought
ou and I were to dance together.'
"I wonder you should think so, for you never askedme.' "
That is a good one, by Jove!--I asked you as soon
as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask
you again, but when I turned round, you were gone!--
this is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of
dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged
to me ever since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you
while you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak. And
here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was
going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and when
they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz
me famously.'
"Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a description
as that.'
"By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the
room for blockheads. What chap have you there ?' Catherine
satisfied his curiosity. "Tilney,' he repeated, "Hum--I do not
know him. A good figure of a man; well put together.--Does
he want a horse ?--Here is a friend ofmine, Sam Fletcher, has
got one to sell that would suit any body. A famous clever
animal for the road--only forty guineas. I had fifty minds to
buy it myself, for it is one ofmy maxims always to buy a good
horse when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose,
it would not do for the field. I would give any money for
a real good hunter. I have three now, the best that ever were
back'd. I would not take eight hundred guineas for them
Fletcher and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire, against
the next season. It is so d-- uncomfortable, living at an inn-'
This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine's
attention, for he was just then born off by the resistless
pressure of a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now
drew near, and said, "That gentleman would have put me out
of patience, had he staid with you half a minute longer. He
has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from
me. We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness
for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs
solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves
on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the
other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage.
Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both;
and those men who do not chuse to dance or marry themselves,
have no business with the partners or wives of their
neighbours.'
"But they are such very different things !--'
"--That you think they cannot be compared together.'
"To be sure not. People that marry can never part,
but must go and keep house together. People that dance,
only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an
hour.'
"And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing.
Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking;
but I think I could place them in such a view.--You will
allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman
only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement
between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each;
and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to
each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their
duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing
that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and
their best interest to keep their own imaginations from
wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or
fancying that they should have been better off with any one
else. You will allow all this?'
"Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well;
but still they are so very different.--I cannot look upon them
at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to
them.'
"In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage
the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman;
he woman to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to
purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are
exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are
expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the
lavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties
which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of
comparison.'
"No, indeed, I never thought of that.'
"Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however I must
observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming.
You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations ; and may
I not thence infer, that your notions of the duties of the
dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish?
Have I not reason to fear, that if the gentleman who spoke
you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were
to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from
conversing with him as long as you chose?'
"Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's,
that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are
hardly three young men in the room besides him, that I have
any acquaintance with.'
"And is that to be my only security? alas, alas !'
"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not
know any body,it is impossible for me to talk to them; and,
besides, I do not want to talk to any body.'
"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I
shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as
when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?'
"Yes, quite--more so, indeed.'
"More so !--Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at
the proper time.-- You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.'
"I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six
months.'
"Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so
every body finds out every year. ""For six weeks, I allow Bath
is pleasant enough; but beyond that, it is the most tiresome
place in the world.'' You would be told so by people of all
descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their
six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they
can afford to stay no longer.'
"Well, other people must judge for themselves, and
those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But
I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can
never find greater sameness in such a place as this, than
in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements,
a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which
I can know nothing of there.'
"You are not fond of the country.'
"Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very
happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country
life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like
another.'
"But then you spend your time so much more rationally in
the country.'
"Do I?'
"Do you not?'
"I do not believe there is much difference.'
"Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.'
"And so I am at home--only I do not find so much of it.
I walk about here, and so I do there;--but here I see a variety
of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on
Mrs. Allen.'
Mr. Tilney was very much amused. "Only go and call on
Mrs. Allen!' he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual
poverty ! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you
will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of
all that you did here.'
"Oh! yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of
again to Mrs. Allen, or any body else. I really believe I shall
always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again--I do
like it so very much. Ifl could but have papa and mamma,
and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy!
James's coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful--and
especially as it turns out, that the very family we are just got
so intimate with, are his intimate friends already. Oh ! who
can ever be tired of Bath ?'
"Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it,
as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers and intimate
friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of
Bath--and the honest relish of balls and plays, and every-day
sights, is past with them.'
Here their conversation closed ; the demands of the dance
becoming now too importunate for a divided attention.
Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine
perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who
stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner.
He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past
the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still
directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr.
Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and
blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong
in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she
did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner coming
nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked.
That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to
know his. It is General Tilney, my father.'
Catherine's answer was only "Oh!'--but it was an "Oh !'
expressing every thing needful; attention to his words, and
perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong
admiration did her eye now follow the General, as he moved
through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they are !'
was her secret remark.
In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded,
a new source of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a
country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom
all the commonly-frequented environs were familiar, spoke
of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know them
too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to
go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they
should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like it,'
she cried, "beyond any thing in the world; and do not let us
put it off--let us go to-morrow.' This was readily agreed to,
with only a proviso of Miss Tilney's, that it did not rain, which
Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o'clock, they were
to call for her in Pulteney-street--and "remember--twelve
o'clock,' was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her
other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of
whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight's
experience, she scarcely saw any thing during the evening.
Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness,
she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which
took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her,
as she danced in her chair all the way home.
<C  XI>
THE morrow brought a very sober looking morning; the
sun making only a few efforts to appear; and Catherine
augured from it, every thing most favourable to her wishes.
A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed would
generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement
as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation
ofher hopes, but Mr. Allen not having his own skies
and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute
promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs.
Allen's opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the
world ofits being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go
off, and the sun keep out.'
At about eleven o'clock however, a few specks of small rain
upon the windows caught Catherine's watchful eye, and "Oh !
dear, I do believe it will be wet,' broke from her in a most
desponding tone.
"I thought how it would be,' said Mrs. Allen.
"No walk for me to-day,' sighed Catherine;--"but perhaps
it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve.'
"Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.'
"Oh! that will not signify; I never mind dirt.'
"No,' replied her friend very placidly, "I know you never
mind dirt.'
After a short pause, 'It comes on faster and faster!' said
Catherine, as she stood watching at a window.
"So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be
very wet.'
"There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight
of an umbrella !'
"They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather
take a chair at any time.'
"It was such a nice looking morning! I felt so convinced it
would be dry!'
"Any body would have thought so indeed. There will be
very few people in the Pump-room, if it rains all the morning.
I hope Mr. Allen will put on his great coat when he goes but
I dare say he will not, for he had rather do any thing in the
world than walk out in a great coat; I wonder he should dislike
it, it must be so comfortable.'
The rain continued--fast, though not heavy. Catherine
went every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each
return that, ifit still kept on raining another five minutes, she
would give up the matter as hopeless. The clock struck twelve,
and it still rained.--"You will not be able to go, my dear.'
"I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter
after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and
I do think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes
after twelve, and now I shall give it up entirely. Oh ! that we
had such weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in
Tuscany and the South of France!--the night that poor St.
Aubin died ! --such beautiful weather !'
At half past twelve, when Catherine's anxious attention to
the weather was over, and she could no longer claim any merit
from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily to clear. A
gleam of sunshine took her quite by surprize; she looked
round ; the clouds were parting, and she instantly returned to
the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance.
Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon
would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who
had "always thought it would clear up.' But whether Catherine
might still expect her friends, whether there had not been
too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture, must yet be a
question.
It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband
to the Pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and
Catherine had barely watched him down the street, when her
notice was claimed by the approach of the same two open
carriages, containing the same three people that had surprized
her so much a few mornings back.
"Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare ! They
are coming for me perhaps--but I shall not go--I cannot go
indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call.' Mrs. Allen
agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them, and his voice
was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out
to Miss Morland to be quick. "Make haste! make haste!' as
he threw open the door--"put on your hat this moment--
there is no time to be lost--we are going to Bristol.--How
d'ye do, Mrs. Allen ?'
"To Bristol! Is not that a great way off?--But, however,
I cannot go with you to-day, because I am engaged; I expect
some friends every moment.' This was of course vehemently
talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to
second him, and the two others walked in, to give their assistance. "
My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful ? We shall
have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and
me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time,
I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been
off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But
it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do
delightfully. Oh ! I am in such extasies at the thoughts ofa little
country air and quiet!--so much better than going to the
Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine
there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go
on to kingsweston.'
"I doubt our being able to do so much,' said Morland.
"You croaking fellow !' cried Thorpe, "we shall be able to do
ten times more. kingsweston ! aye, and Blaize Castle too, and
any thing else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she
will not go.'
"Blaize Castle !' cried Catherine; "what is that?'
"The finest place in England--worth going fifty miles at any
time to see.'
"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?'
"The oldest in the kingdom.'
"But is it like what one reads of?'
"Exactly--the very same.'
"But now really--are there towers and long galleries ?'
"By dozens.'
"Then I should like to see it; but I cannot--I cannot go.'
"Not go !--my beloved creature, what do you mean ?'
"I cannot go, because'--(looking down as she spoke,
fearful of Isabella's smile) "I expect Miss Tilney and her
brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised
to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I
dare say they will be here soon.'
"Not they indeed,' cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into
Broad-street, I saw them--does he not drive a phaeton with
bright chesnuts ?'
"I do not know indeed.'
"Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the
man you danced with last night, are not you ?'
"Yes.'
"Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown
Road,--driving a smart-looking girl.'
"Did you indeed ?'
"Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed
to have got some very pretty cattle too.'
"It is very odd ! but I suppose they thought it would be too
dirty for a walk.'
"And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my
life. Walk! you could no more walk than you could fly! it has
not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ancle-deep every
where.'
Isabella corroborated it i--"My dearest Catherine, you cannot
form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot
refuse going now.'
"I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it?
may we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms ?'
"Yes, yes, every hole and corner.'
"But then,--if they should only be gone out for an hour till
it is drier, and call by and bye ?'
"Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard
Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback,
that they were going as far as Wick Rocks.'
"Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen ?'
"Just as you please, my dear.'
"Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,' was the general
cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it:--"Well, my dear,'
said she, "suppose you go.'--And in two minutes they
were off.
Catherine's feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in
a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of
one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another,
almost its equal in degree, however unlike in kind. She could
not think the Tilneys had acted quite well by her, in so readily
giving up their engagement, without sending her any message
of excuse. It was now but an hour later than the time fixed on
for the beginning of their walk ; and, in spite of what she had
heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course of
that hour, she could not from her own observation help thinking,
that they might have gone with very little inconvenience.
To feel herself slighted by them was very painful. On the
other hand, the delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho,
as her fancy represented Blaize Castle to be, was such a
counterpoise of good, as might console her for almost any
thing.
They passed briskly down Pulteney-street, and through
Laura-place, without the exchange of many words. Thorpe
talked to his horse, and she meditated, by turns, on broken
promises and broken arches, phaetons and false hangings,
Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle-buildings,
however, she was roused by this address from her companion,
Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?'
"Who ?--where ?'
"On the right-hand pavement--she must be almost out of
sight now.' Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning
on her brother's arm, walking slowly down the street. She
saw them both looking back at her. "Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,
she impatiently cried, it is Miss Tilney; it is indeed.--How
could you tell me they were gone ?--Stop, stop, I will get out
this moment and go to them.' But to what purpose did she
speak?--Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the
Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in
a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura-place, and
in another moment she was herself whisked into the Marketplace.
Still, however, and during the length of another street,
she intreated him to stop. "Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe.--
I cannot go on.--I will not go on.--I must go back to Miss
Tilney.' But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip,
encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and
Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having no power of
getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit.
Her reproaches, however, were not spared. "How could you
deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe?--How could you say, that you
saw them driving up the Lansdown-road ? --I would not have
had it happen so for the world.--They must think it so strange;
so rude of me! to go by them, too, without saying a word!
You do not know how vexed I am.--I shall have no pleasure
at Clifton, nor in any thing else. I had rather, ten thousand
times rather get out now, and walk back to them. How could
you say, you saw them driving out in a phaeton?' Thorpe
defended himself very stoutly, declared he had never seen two
men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the
point of its having been Tilney himself.
Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely
to be very agreeable. Catherine's complaisance was no longer
what it had been in their former airing. She listened reluctantly,
and her replies were short. Blaize Castle remained her
only comfort; towards that, she still looked at intervals with
pleasure ; though rather than be disappointed of the promised
walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the
Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness
which its walls could supply--the happiness of a progress
through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of
magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted--
the happiness of being stopped in their way along narrow,
winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having their
lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind,
and of being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they
proceeded on their journey without any mischance ; and were
within view of the town of keynsham, when a halloo from
Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up,
to know what was the matter. The others then came close
enough for conversation, and Morland said, "We had better
go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on to-day; your sister
thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming
from Pulteney-street, very little more than seven miles ; and,
I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will never do.
We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it off
till another day, and turn round.'
"It is all one to me,' replied Thorpe rather angrily; and
instantly turning his horse, they were on their way back
to Bath.
"If your brother had not got such a d-- beast to drive,'
said he soon afterwards, 'we might have done it very well.
My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if
left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling
him in to that cursed broken-winded jade's pace. Morland is
a fool for not keeping a horse and gig ofhis own.'
"No, he is not,' said Catherine warmly, "for I am sure he
could not afford it.'
"And why cannot he afford it?'
"Because he has not money enough.'
"And whose fault is that ?'
"Nobody's, that I know of.' Thorpe then said something
in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse,
about its being a d-- thing to be miserly; and that if people
who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know
who could ; which Catherine did not even endeavour to understand.
Disappointed of what was to have been the consolation
for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed
either to be agreeable herself, or to find her companion so;
and they returned to Pulteney-street without her speaking
twenty words.
As she entered the house, the footman told her, that a
gentleman and lady had called and inquired for her a few
minutes after her setting off; that, when he told them she was
gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether any
message had been left for her; and on his saying no, had felt
for a card, but said she had none about her, and went awai .
Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked
slowly up stairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr.
Allen, who, on hearing the reason of their speedy return, said,
"I am glad your brother had so much sense; I am glad you are
come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.'
They all spent the evening together at Thorpe's. Catherine
was disturbed and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find
a pool of commerce,' in the fate of which she shared, by private
partnership with Morland, a very good equivalent for the
quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton. Her satisfaction,
too, in not being at the Lower Rooms, was spoken more than
once. "How I pity the poor creatures that are going there ! How
glad I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it
will be a full ball or not! They have not begun dancing yet.
I would not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to
have an evening now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not
be a very good ball. I know the Mitchells will not be there.
I am sure I pity every body that is. But I dare say, Mr.
Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you do.
Well, pray do not let any body here be a restraint on you.
I dare say we could do very well without you; but you men
think yourselves of such consequence.'
Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being
wanting in tenderness towards herself and her sorrows; so
very little did they appear to dwell on her mind, and so very
inadequate was the comfort she offered. "Do not be so dull,
my dearest creature,' she whispered. "You will quite break
my heart. It was amazingly shocking to be sure; but the
Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more
punctual? It was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify?
I am sure John and I should not have minded it. I never mind
going through any thing, where a friend is concerned; that
is my disposition, and John is just the same; he has amazing
strong feelings. Good heavens! what a delightful hand you
have got! Kings, I vow! I never was so happy in my life!
I would fifty times rather you should have them than myself.'
And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch,
which is the true heroine's portion; to a pillow strewed with
thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think herself,
if she get another good night's rest in the course of the next
three months.
<C  XII>
"MRS. ALLEN,' said Catherine the next morning, "will there
be any harm in my calling on Miss Tilney to-day? I shall not
be easy till I have explained every thing.'
'Go by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss
Tilney always wears white.'
Catherine cheerfully complied; and being properly
equipped, was more impatient than ever to be at the Pumproom,
that she might inform herself of General Tilney's
lodgings, for though she believed they were in Milsom-street,
she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's wavering
convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom-street
she was directed; and having made herself perfect in the
number, hastened away with eager steps and a beating heart
to pay her visit, explain her conduct, and be forgiven; tripping
lightly through the church-yard, and resolutely turning
away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see her beloved
Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to believe,
were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any
impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and
inquired for Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to
be at home, but was not quite certain. Would she be pleased
to send up her name? She gave her card. In a few minutes the
servant returned, and with a look which did not quite confirm
his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss Tilney was
walked out Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left the
house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at
home, and too much offended to admit her; and as she retired
down the street, could not withhold one glance at the drawingroom
windows, in expectation of seeing her there, but no one
appeared at them. At the bottom of the street, however, she
looked back again, and then, not at a window, but issuing
from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was followed
by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,
and they turned up towards Edgar's-buildings. Catherine, in
deep mortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost
be angry herselfat such angry incivility; but she checked the
resentful sensation ; she remembered her own ignorance. She
knew not how such an offence as her's might be classed by the
laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree of unforgivingness
it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of rudeness
in return it might justly make her amenable.
Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not
going with the others to the theatre that night; but it must be
confessed that they were not of long continuance: for she
soon recollected, in the first place, that she was without any
excuse for staying at home; and, in the second, that it was
a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre accordingly
they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her,
she feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family,
a fondness for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was
because they were habituated to the finer performances of the
London stage, which she knew, on Isabella's authority,
rendered every thing else of the kind "quite horrid.' She was
not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure; the comedy
so well suspended her care, that no one, observing her during
the first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretched"
ness about her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the
sudden view of Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining
a party in the opposite box, recalled her to anxiety and
distress. The stage could no longer excite genuine merriment
--no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look upon
an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for
the space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry
Tilney, without being once able to catch his eye. No longer
could he be suspected ofindifference for a play; his notice
was never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes.
At length, however, he did look towards her, and he bowed--
but such a bow ! no smile, no continued observance attended
it; his eyes were immediately returned to their former
direction. Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could
almost have run round to the box in which he sat, and forced
him to hear her explanation. Feelings rather natural than
heroic possessed her; instead of considering her own dignity
injured by this ready condemnation--instead of proudly
resolving, in conscious innocence, to shew her resentment
towards him who could harbour a doubt ofit, to leave to him
all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him
on the past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody
else, she took to herself all the shame of misconduct, or
at least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity
of explaining its cause.
The play concluded--the curtain fell--Henry Tilney was
no longer to be seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father
remained, and perhaps he might be now coming round to
their box. She was right; in a few minutes he appeared, and,
making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke with
like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend.--Not with
such calmness was he answered by the latter : "Oh ! Mr. Tilney,
I have been quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies.
You must have thought me so rude; but indeed it was not my
own fault,--was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr.
Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together ? and
then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather
have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?'
'My dear, you tumble my gown,' was Mrs. Allen's reply.
Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not
thrown away; it brought a more cordial, more natural smile
into his countenance, and he replied in a tone which retained
only a little affected reserve:--"We were much obliged t
you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our passing
you in Argyle-street: you were so kind as to look back on
purpose.'
"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I neve
thought of such a thing ; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly
to stop; I called out to him as soon as ever I saw you; now
Mrs. Allen, did not---Oh ! you were not there; but indeed
I did ; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped, I would
have jumped out and run after you.'
Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to
such a declaration ? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet
sweeter smile, he said every thing that need be said of his
sister's concern, regret, and dependence on Catherine's
honour.--"Oh ! do not say Miss Tilney was not angry,' cried
Catherine, "because I know she was ; for she would not see me
this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the hous
the next minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not
affronted. Perhaps you did not know I had been there.'
"I was not within at the time; but I heard ofit from Eleanor,
and she has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the
reason of such incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well, It
was nothing more than that my fat er--they were just preparing
to walk out, and he being hurried for time, and not
caring to have it put off, made a point of her being denied.
That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed, and
meant to make her apology as soon as possible.'
Catherine's mind was greatly eased by this information,
yet a something of solicitude remained, from which sprang the
following question, thoroughly artless in itself, though rather
distressing to the gentleman:--"But, Mr. Tilney, why were
you less generous than your sister ? If she felt such confidence
in my good intentions, and could suppose it to be only a
mistake, why should you be so ready to take offence?'
"Me !--I take offence !"
'Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box,
you were angry.'
"I angry! I could have no right.'
"Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who
saw your face.' He replied by asking her to make room for him,
and talking of the play.
He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable
for Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before
they parted, however, it was agreed that the projected walk
should be taken as soon as possible; and, setting aside the
misery of his quitting their box, she was, upon the whole, left
one of the happiest creatures in the world.
While talking to each other, she had observed with some
surprize, that John Thorpe, who was never in the same part
of the house for ten minutes together, was engaged in conversation
with General Tilney; and she felt something more
than surprize, when she thought she could perceive herself
the object of their attention and discourse. What could they
have to say of her? She feared General Tilney did not like
her appearance: she found it was implied in his preventing
her admittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own
walk a few minutes. "How came Mr. Thorpe to know your
father?' was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to
her companion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like
every military man, had a very large acquaintance.
When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist
them in getting out. Catherine was the immediate object of
his gallantry; and, while they waited in the lobby for a chair,
he prevented the inquiry which had travelled from her heart
almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in a consequential
manner, whether she had seen him talking with General
Tilney:--"He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul!--stout,
active,--looks as young as his son. I have a great regard for
him, I assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as
ever lived.'
"But how came you to know him ?'
"know him !--There are few people much about town that
I do not know. I have met him for ever at the Bedford;" and
I knew his face again to-day the moment he came into the
billiard-room. One of the best players we have, by the bye
and we had a little touch' together, though I was almost afraid
of him at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if
I had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever
was made in this world--I took his ball exactly--bu
I could not make you understand it without a table;--however
I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich as a Jew
I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous
dinners. But what do you think we have been talking of?
You. Yes, by heavens !--and the General thinks you the finest
girl in Bath.'
"Oh! nonsense! how can you say so?'
"And what do you think I said?' (lowering his voice) "Wel
done, General, said I, I am quite of your mind.'
Here, Catherine, who was much less gratified by his
admiration than by General Tilney's, was not sorry to be
called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe, however, would see he
to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued the same kind
of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to have done
That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire
her, was very delightful; and she joyfully thought, that ther
was not one of the family whom she need now fear to meet.--
The evening had done more, much more, for her, than could
have been expected.
<C  XIII>
MONDAY, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and
Saturday have now passed in review before the reader; the
events of each day, its hopes and fears, mortifications and
pleasures have been separately stated, and the pangs of
Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the week
The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and
on the afternoon's Crescent of this day, it was brought forward
again. In a private consultation between Isabella and
James, the former of whom had particularly set her heart upon
going, and the latter no less anxiously placed his upon pleasing
her, it was agreed that, provided the weather were fair, the
party should take place on the following morning; and they
were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.
The affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation
secured, Catherine only remained to be apprized of it. She
had left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In
that interval the plan was completed, and as soon as she came
again, her agreement was demanded; but instead of the gay
acquiescence expected by Isabella, Catherine looked grave,
was very sorry, but could not go. The engagement which
ought to have kept her from joining in the former attempt,
would make it impossible for her to accompany them now.
She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take their
promised walk to-morrow; it was quite determined, and she
would not, upon any account, retract. But that she must and
should retract, was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes ;
they must go to Clifton to-morrow, they would not go without
her, it would be nothing to put offa mere walk for one day
longer, and they would not hear of a refusal. Catherine was
distressed, but not subdued. "Do not urge me, Isabella. I am
engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go.' This availed nothing.
The same arguments assailed her again; she must go, she
should go, and they would not hear of a refusal. "It would be
so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had just been reminded of
a prior engagement, and must only beg to put off the walk till
Tuesday.'
"No,it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been
no prior engagement.' But Isabella became only more and
more urgent; calllng on her in the most affectlonate manner;
addressing her by the most endearing names. She was sure
her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not seriously refuse
such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so dearly. She
knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so sweet
a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But
all in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and
though pained by such tender, such flattering supplication,
could not allow it to influence her. Isabella then tried another
method. She reproached her with having more affection for
Miss Tilney, though she had known her so little a while, than
for her best and oldest friends; with being grown cold and
indifferent, in short, towards herself. "I cannot help being
jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers,
I, who love you so excessively! When once my affections are
placed, it is not in the power ofany thing to change them. But
I believe my feelings are stronger than any body's; I am sure
they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself supplanted
in your friendship by strangers, does cut me to the
quick, I own, These Tilneys seem to swallow up every
thing else.'
Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind.
Was it the part ofa friend thus to expose her feelings to
the notice of others ? Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and
selfish, regardless of every thing but her own gratification,
These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said
nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief
to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,
could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot
stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to
oblige such a friend--I shall think you quite unkind, if you
still refuse.'
This was the first time of her brother's openly siding against
her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise.
If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday,
which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves,
she could go with them, and every body might then
be satisfied. But "No, no, no !' was the immediate answer;
"that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might
not go to town on Tuesday.' Catherine was sorry, but could
do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken
by Isabella; who in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very
well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does
not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would
not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a
thing.'
"Catherine, you must go,' said James.
"But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one ofhis other sisters ?
I dare say either of them would like to go.'
"Thank ye,' cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to
drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not
go, d-- me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you.'
"That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.' But
her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly
away.
The three others still continued together, walking in a most
uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; some times not
a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications
or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within
Isabella's, though their hearts were at war. At one moment
she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but
always steady.
"I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,' said
James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once
were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters.'
"I hope I am not less so now,' she replied, very feelingly;
"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what
I believe to be right.'
"I suspect,' said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great
struggle.'
Catherine's heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and
Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes,
till they were again joined by Thorpe, who coming to them
with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and
now we may all go to-morrow with a safe conscience. I have
been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.'
"You have not !' cried Catherine.
"I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her
you had sent me to say, that having just recollected a prior
engagement of going to Clifton with us to-morrow, you could
not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She
said very well Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there
is an end of all our difficulties.--A pretty good thought of
mine--hey?'
Isabella's countenance was once more all smiles and goodhumour,
and James too looked happy again.
"A most heavenly thought indeed ! Now, my sweet Catherine,
all our distresses are over ; you are honourably acquitted,
and we shall have a most delightful party.'
"This will not do,' said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this.
I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.'
Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand ; Thorpe of the
other; and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even
James was quite angry. When every thing was settled, when
Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well,
-It was quite ridiculous, quite absurd to make any further
objection.
"I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any
such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could
have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in
a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has--he
may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of
rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe;
Isabella, do not hold me.'
Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys;
they were turning the corner into Brock-street, when he had
overtaken them, and were at home by this time.
"Then I will go after them,' said Catherine; "wherever
they are I will go after them. It does not signify talking. If
I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong,
I never will be tricked into it.' And with these words she broke
away and hurried off. Thorpe would have darted after her,
but Morland withheld him. "Let her go, let her go, if she
will go.'
"She is as obstinate as--'
Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have
been a proper one.
Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the
crowd would permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined
to persevere. As she walked, she reflected on what had
passed, It was painful to her to disappoint and displease them,
particularly to displease her brother; but she could not repent
her resistance. Setting her own inclination apart, to have
failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to
have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes
before, and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong.
She had not been withstanding them on selfish principles
alone, she had not consulted merely her own gratification;
that might have been ensured in some degree by the excursion
itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had attended to what
was due to others, and to her own character in their opinion.
Her conviction of being right however was not enough to
restore her composure, till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she
could not be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got
clear of the Crescent, she almost ran over the remaining
ground till she gained the top of Milsom-street. So rapid had
been her movements, that in spite of the Tilneys' advantage
in the outset, they were but just turning into their lodgings
as she came within view of them; and the servant still remaining
at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying
that she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying
by him proceeded up stairs. Then, opening the first door
before her, which happened to be the right, she immediately
found herself in the drawing-room with General Tilney, his
son and daughter. Her explanation, defective only in being--
from her irritation of nerves and shortness of breath--no
explanation at all, was instantly given. "I am come in a great
hurry--It was all a mistake--I never promised to go--I told
them from the first I could not go.--I ran away in a great
hurry to explain it.--I did not care what you thought ofme.--
I would not stay for the servant.'
The business however, though not perfectly elucidated by
this speech, soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that
John Thorpe had given the message; and Miss Tilney had no
scruple in owning herself greatly surprized by it. But whether
her brother had still exceeded her in resentment, Catherine,
though she instinctively addressed herself as much to one as
to the other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.
Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager
declarations immediately made every look and sentence as
friendly as she could desire.
The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss
Tilney to her father, and received by him with such ready,
such solicitous politeness as recalled Thorpe's information to
her mind, and made her think with pleasure that he might be
sometimes depended on. To such anxious attention was the
general's civility carried, that not aware of her extraordinary
swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry with the
servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the
apartment herself. "What did William mean by it ? He should
make a point ofinquiring into the matter.' And if Catherine
had not most warmly asserted his innocence, it seemed likely
that William would lose the favour of his master for ever, if
not his place, by her rapidity.
After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to
take leave, and was then most agreeably surprized by General
Tilney's asking her if she would do his daughter the honour
of dining and spending the rest of the day with her. Miss
Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was greatly obliged;
but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen would
expect her back every moment. The general declared he could
say no more; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be
superseded; but on some other day he trusted, when longer
notice could be given, they would not refuse to spare her to
her friend. "Oh, no; Catherine was sure they would not have
the least objection, and she should have great pleasure in
coming.' The general attended her himself to the street-door,
saying every thing gallant as they went down stairs, admiring
the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded exactly with the
spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the most graceful
bows she had ever beheld, when they parted.
Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily
to Pulteney-street; walking, as she concluded, with great
elasticity, though she had never thought of it before. She
reached home without seeing any thing more of the offended
party; and now that she had been triumphant throughout,
had carried her point and was secure of her walk, she began
(as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she
had been perfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if
she had given way to their entreaties, she should have been
spared the distressing idea of a friend displeased, a brother
angry, and a scheme of great happiness to both destroyed,
perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and ascertain
by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own
conduct had really been, she took occasion to mention before
Mr. Allen the half-settled scheme of her brother and the
Thorpes for the following day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly.
"Well,' said he, "and do you think ofgoing too?'
"No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney
before they told me ofit; and therefore you know I could not
go with them, could I?'
"No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think ofit.
These schemes are not at all the thing. Young men and
women driving about the country in open carriages ! Now and
then it is very well; but going to inns and public places
together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should
allow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs.
Morland would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my
way of thinking? Do not you think these kind of projects
objectionable ?'
"Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty
things. A clean gown is not five minutes wear in them. You
are splashed getting in and getting out; and the wind takes
your hair and your bonnet in every direction. I hate an open
carriage myself.'
"I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you
think it has an odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently
driven about in them by young men, to whom they are not
even related ?'
"yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear
to see it.'
"Dear madam,' cried Catherine, "then why did not you tell
me so before? I am sure ifl had known it to be improper,
I would not have gone with Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always
hoped you would tell me, if you thought I was doing wrong.'
"And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as
I told Mrs. Morland at parting, I would always do the best
for you in my power. But one must not be over particular.
Young people will be young people, as your good mother says
herself. You know I wanted you, when we first came, not to
buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do
not like to be always thwarted.'
"But this was something of real consequence; and I do not
think you would have found me hard to persuade.'
"As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,' said
Mr. Allen; "and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go
out with Mr. Thorpe any more.'
"That is just what I was going to say,' added his wife.
Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella;
and after a moment's thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it
would not be both proper and kind in her to write to Miss
Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of which she must be
as insensible as herself; for she considered that Isabella
might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day,
in spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen however discouraged
her from doing any such thing. "You had better leave her
alone, my dear, she is old enough to know what she is about;
and if not, has a mother to advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too
indulgent beyond a doubt; but however you had better not
interfere. She and your brother chuse to go, and you will be
only getting ill-will.'
Catherine submitted; and though sorry to think that
Isabella should be doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr.
Allen's approbation of her own conduct, and truly rejoiced
to be preserved by his advice from the danger of falling into
such an error herself. Her escape from being one of the party
to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the
Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to
them in order to do what was wrong in itself? if she had been
guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable her to be
guilty of another ?
<C  XIV>
THE next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected
another attack from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to
support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would
gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful;
and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing
any thing of them. The Tilneys called for her at the
appointed time ; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection,
no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to
disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally
able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the
hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen
Cliff, that noble hill, whose beautiful verdure and hanging
coppice render it so striking an object from almost every
opening in Bath.
"I never look at it,' said Catherine, as they walked along the
side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France.'
"You have been abroad then ?' said Henry, a little surprized.
"Oh ! no, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts
me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled
through, in the ""Mysteries of Udolpho.'' But you never read
novels, I dare say ?'
"Why not?'
"Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen
read better books.'
"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure
in a good novel must be intolerably stupid. I have read all
Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure.
The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could
not lay down again;--I remember finishing it in two days--
my hair standing on end the whole time.'
"Yes,' added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook
to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away
for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for
me, you took the volume into the Hermitage-walk, and I was
obliged to stay till you had finished it.'
"Thank you, Eleanor;--a most honourable testimony. You
see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was
I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes
for my sister; breaking the promise I had made of reading it
aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part,
by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe,
was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect
on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.'
"I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be
ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought
before, young men despised novels amazingly.'
"It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement ifthey do--
for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read
hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope
with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed
to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of
""Have you read this ?'' and ""Have you read that ?'' I shall soon
leave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an
appropriate simile;--as far as your friend Emily herself left
poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy.
Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had
entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little
girl working your sampler at home !'
"Not very good I am afraid. But now really, do not you think
Udolpho the nicest book in the world ?'
"The nicest;'--by which I suppose you mean the neatest.
That must depend upon the binding.'
"Henry,' said Miss Tilney, 'you are very impertinent. Miss
Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He
is for ever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of
language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The
word ""nicest,'' as you used it, did not suit him; and you had
better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered
with Johnson and Blair' all the rest of the way.'
"I am sure,' cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say any
thing wrong; but it is a nice book, and why should not I call
it so?'
"Very true,' said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and
we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice
young ladies. Oh! it is a very nice word indeed!--it does for
every thing. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express
neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement;--people were
nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But
now every commendation on every subject is comprised in
that one word.'
"While, in fact,' cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied
to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice
than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate
over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we
praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most
interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading ?'
"To say the truth, I do not much like any other.'
"Indeed !'
"That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that
sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn
history, I cannot be interested in. Can you ?'
"Yes, I am fond of history.'
"I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me
nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of
popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the
men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all--
it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be
so dull, for a great deal ofit must be invention. The speeches
that are put into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts and
designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and invention
is what delights me in other books.'
"Historians, you think,' said Miss Tilney, "are not happy
in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without
raising interest. I am fond of history--and am very well contented
to take the false with the true. In the principal facts
they have sources of intelligence in former histories and
records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as
any thing that does not actually pass under one's own observation;
and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they
are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be
well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may
be made--and probably with much greater, if the production
of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson," than if the genuine words of
Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great."
"You are fond of history!--and so are Mr. Allen and my
father; and I have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many
instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable ! At
this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If
people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at
so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to
think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring
only for the torment oflittle boys and girls, always struck me
as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary,
I have often wondered at the person's courage that could
sit down on purpose to do it.'
"That little boys and girls should be tormented,' said
Henry, "is what no one at all acquainted with human nature
in a civilized state can deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished
historians, I must observe, that they might well
be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim; and that
by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to
torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature time
of life. I use the verb '"to torment,'' as I observed to be your
own method, instead of ""to instruct,'' supposing them to be
now admitted as synonimous.
"You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if
you had been as much used as myself to hear poor little children
first learning their letters and then learning to spell, if you
had ever seen how stupid they can be for a whole morning
together, and how tired my poor mother is at the end of it, as
I am in the habit ofseeing almost every day ofmy life at home,
you would allow that to torment and to instruct might sometimes
be used as synonimous words.'
"Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the
difficulty oflearning to read ; and even you yourself, who do not
altogether seem particularly friendly to very severe, very intense
application, may perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is
very well worth while to be tormented for two or three years of
one's life, for the sake ofbeing able to read all the rest ofit. Consider--
if reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would
have written in vain--or perhaps might not have written at all.'
Catherine assented--and a very warm panegyric from her
on that lady's merits, closed the subject.--The Tilneys were
soon engaged in another on which she had nothing to say.
They were viewing the country with the eyes of persons
accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of being
formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here
Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing--
nothing of taste:--and she listened to them with an attention
which brought her little profit, for they talked in phrases
which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little which she
could understand however appeared to contradict the very
few notions she had entertained on the matter before. It
seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the
top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a
proof of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed ofher ignorance.
A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should
always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind, is to
come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others,
which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman
especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing any thing,
should conceal it as well as she can.
The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been
already set forth by the capital pen of a sister author;--and
to her treatment of the subject I will only add in justice to men,
that through to the larger and more trifling part of the sex,
imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their personal
charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well
informed themselves to desire any thing more in woman than
ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own advantages--
did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate
heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting
a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly
untoward. In the present instance, she confessed and lamented
her want of knowledge; declared that she would give any
thing in the world to be able to draw; and a lecture on the
picturesque immediately followed, in which his instructions
were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in every thing
admired by him, and her attention was so earnest, that he
became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural
taste. He talked of fore-grounds, distances, and second distances--
side-screens and perspectives--lights and shades ;--
and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar, that when they gained
the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the whole
city of Bath, as unworthy to make part of a landscape. Delighted
with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much
wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and
by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the
withered oak which he had placed near its summit, to oaks
in general, to forests, the inclosure of them, waste lands,
crown lands and government, he shortly found himself
arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an easy step to
silence. The general pause which succeeded his short disquisition
on the state of the nation, was put an end to by
Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered
these words, "I have heard that something very shocking
indeed, will soon come out in London.'
Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was
startled, and hastily replied, "Indeed !--and of what nature ?'
"That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only
heard that it is to be more horrible than any thing we have met
with yet.'
"Good heaven !--Where could you hear of such a thin ?'
"A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter
from London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful.
I shall expect murder and every thing of the kind.'
"You speak with astonishing composure ! But I hope your
friend's accounts have been exaggerated;--and if such a
design is known beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly
be taken by government to prevent its coming to effect.'
"Government,' said Henry, endeavouring not to smile,
"neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There
must be murder; and government cares not how much.'
The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, "Come, shall
I make you understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out
an explanation as you can ? No--I will be noble. I will prove
myself a man, no less by the generosity of my soul than the
clearness of my head. I have no patience with such of my sex
as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the comprehension
of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are
neither sound nor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps
they may want observation, discernment, judgment, fire,
genius, and wit.'
"Miss Morland, do not mind what he says;--but have the
goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.'
"Riot !--what riot ?'
"My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The
confusion there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking
of nothing more dreadful than a new publication which
is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo volumes, two
hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece to
the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you understand ?--
And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken
all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected
horrors in London--and instead of instantly conceiving, as
any rational creature would have done, that such words could
relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured
to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling in St.
George's Fields;' the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened,
the streets of London flowing with blood,a detachment of the
12th Light Dragoons, (the hopes of the nation,) called up
from Northampton' to quell the insurgents, and the gallant
Capt. Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the
head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an
upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the sister have
added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no
means a simpleton in general.'
Catherine looked grave. "And now, Henry,' said Miss
Tilney, "that you have made us understand each other, you
may as well make Miss Morland understand yourself--unless
you mean to have her think you intolerably rude to your sister,
and a great brute in your opinion of women in general. Miss
Morland is not used to your odd ways.'
"I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with
them.'
"No doubt;--but that is no explanation of the present.'
"What am I to do?'
"You know what you ought to do. Clear your character
handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very highly
of the understanding of women.'
"Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding
of all the women in the world--especially of those--whoever
they may be--with whom I happen to be in company.'
"That is not enough. Be more serious.'
"Miss Morland, no one can think more highly ofthe understanding
of women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given
them so much, that they never find it necessary to use more
than half.'
"We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss
Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that
he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to
say an unjust thing of any woman at all, or an unkind one
of me.'
It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney
could never be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprize,
but his meaning must always be just:--and what she did not
understand, she was almost as ready to admire, as what she
did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it ended too
soon, its conclusion was delightful too ; --her friends attended
her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted,
addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs.
Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company
to dinner on the day after the next. No difficulty was
made on Mrs. Allen's side--and the only difficulty on
Catherine's was in concealing the excess of her pleasure.
The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish
all her friendship and natural affection; for no thought of
Isabella or James had crossed her during their walk. When the
Tilneys were gone, she became amiable again, but she was
amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence
to give that could relieve her anxiety, she had heard
nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the morning
however, Catherine having occasion for some indispensable
yard of ribbon which must be bought without a moment's
delay, walked out into the town, and in Bond-street overtook
the second Miss Thorpe, as she was loitering towards Edgar's
Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world, who
had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she soon
learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. "They set off
at eight this morning,' said Miss Anne, "and I am sure I do
not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well off
to be out of the scrape.--It must be the dullest thing in the
world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year.
Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria.'
Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this
part of the arrangement.
"Oh ! yes,' rejoined the other, "Maria is gone. She was quite
wild to go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot
say I admire her taste; and for my part I was determined
from the first not to go, if they pressed me ever so much.'
Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, "
I wish you could have gone too. It is a pity you could
not all go.'
"Thank you; but it is quite a matter ofindifference to me
Indeed, I would not have gone on any account. I was sayi
so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us.'
Catherine was still unconvinced ; but glad that Anne shou
have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her,
she bade her adieu without much uneasiness, and returned
home, pleased that the party had not been prevented by her
refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing that it might
too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to resent her
resistance .any longer.
<C  XV>
EARLY the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace
and tenderness in every line, and entreating the immediate
presence of her friend on a matter of the utmost importance
hastened Catherine, in the happiest state of confidence and
curiosity, to Edgar's Buildings.--The two youngest Miss
Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne's
quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity
asking the other for some particulars of their yesterday's
party. Maria desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it
and Catherine immediately learnt that it had been altogether
the most delightful scheme in the world; that nobody could
imagine how charming it had been, and that it had been
more delightful than any body could conceive. Such was
the information of the first five minutes; the second
unfolded thus much in detail,--that they had drive
directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke
an early dinner, walked down to the Pump-room, taste
the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars;
thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook's, and hurry
ing back to the Hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to
prevent being in the dark; and then had a delightful drive
back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a little,
and Mr. Morland's horse was so tired he could hardly get it
along.
Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared
that Blaize Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all
the rest, there was nothing to regret for half an instant.--
Maria's intelligence concluded with a tender effusion of pity
for her sister Anne, whom she represented as insupportably
cross, from being excluded the party.
"She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how
could I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed he
would not drive her, because she had such thick ancles. I dare
say she will not be in good humour again this month; but I
am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little matter that
puts me out of temper.'
Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and
a look of such happy importance, as engaged all her friend's
notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away, and Isabella,
embracing Catherine, thus began:--"Yes, my dear Catherine,
it is so indeed ; your penetration has not deceived you.--
Oh ! that arch eye of yours !--It sees through every thing.'
Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.
"Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,' continued the other,
"compose yourself.--I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive.
Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you
guessed it the moment you had my note?--Sly creature!--
Oh! my dear Catherine, you alone who know my heart can
judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most
charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him.--
But what will your excellent father and mother say?--Oh!
heavens ! when I think of them I am so agitated !'
Catherine's understanding began to awake: an idea of the
truth suddenly darted into her mind; and, with the natural
blush of so new an emotion, she cried out, "Good heaven !--
my dear Isabella, what do you mean ? Can you--can you really
be in love with James ?'
This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended
but half the fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused
of having continually watched in Isabella's every look and
action, had, in the course of their yesterday's party, received
the delightful confession of an equal love. Her heart and faith
were alike engaged to James.--Never had Catherine listened
to any thing so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother
and her friend engaged !--New to such circumstances, the
importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated
it as one of those grand events, of which the
ordinary course of life can hardly afford a return. The strength
of her feelings she could not express ; the nature of them, however,
contented her friend. The happiness of having such
a sister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in
embraces and tears of joy.
Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the
prospect of the connexion, it must be acknowledged that
Isabella far surpassed her in tender anticipations.--"You will
be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine, than either Anne
or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much more attached to my
dear Morland's family than to my own.'
This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.
"You are so like your dear brother,' continued Isabella, "that
I quite doated on you the first moment I saw you. But so it
always is with me; the first moment settles every thing. The
very first day that Morland came to us last Christmas--the
very first moment I beheld him--my heart was irrecoverably
gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair done
up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and
John introduced him, I thought I never saw any body so handsome
before.'
Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love;
for, though exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all
his endowments, she had never in her life thought him
handsome.
"I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that
evening, and wore her puce-coloured sarsenet;" and she
looked so heavenly, that I thought your brother must certainly
fall in love with her; I could not sleep a wink all night for
thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless nights
I have had on your brother's account !--I would not have you
suffer half what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin
I know; but I will not pain you by describing my anxiety; you
have seen enough of it. I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually;--
so unguarded in speaking of my partiality for the
church!--But my secret I was always sure would be safe
with you.'
Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but
ashamed of an ignorance little expected, she dared no longer
contest the point, nor refuse to have been as full of arch
penetration and affectionate sympathy as Isabella chose to
consider her. Her brother she found was preparing to set off
with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation and
ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation to
the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her,
as she was herself persuaded, that her father and mother
would never oppose their son's wishes.--"It is impossible,'
said she, "for parents to be more kind, or more desirous of
their children's happiness; I have no doubt of their consenting
immediately.'
"Morland says exactly the same,' replied Isabella; "and yet
I dare not expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never
can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry any body !'
Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.
"Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble.--The difference of
fortune can be nothing to signify.'
"Oh ! my sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know
it would signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness
in many. As for myself, I am sure I only wish
our situations were reversed. Had I the command of millions,
were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be
my only choice.'
This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense
as novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of
all the heroines of her acquaintance; and she thought her
friend never looked more lovely than In uttering the grand
idea.--"I am sure they will consent,' was her frequent declaration; "
I am sure they will be delighted with you.'
"For my own part,' said Isabella, "my wishes are so moderatthat
the smallest income in nature would be enough for m
Where people are really attached, poverty itself is wealth:
grandeur I detest: I would not settle in London for the
universe. A cottage in some retired village would be extasy.
There are some charming little villas about Richmond.'
"Richmond!' cried Catherine.--"You must settle near
Fullerton. You must be near us.'
"I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be
near you, I shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking ! I will n
allow myself to think of such things, till we have your father's
answer. Morland says that by sending it to-night to Salisbury
we may have it to-morrow.--To-morrow?--I know I shall
never have courage to open the letter. I know it will be the
death of me.'
A reverie succeeded this conviction--and when Isabel
spoke again, it was to resolve on the quality of her wedding
gown.
Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young
lover himself, who came to breathe his parting sigh before he
set off for Wiltshire. Catherine wished to congratulate him
but knew not what to say, and her eloquence was only in her
eyes. From them however the eight parts of speech shone out
most expressively, and James could combine them with ease.
Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his
adieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter,
had he not been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties
of his fair one that he would go. Twice was he called almost
from the door by her eagerness to have him gone. "Indeed,
Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how far you have
to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For Heaven's sake,
waste no more time. There, go, go--I insist on it.'
The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever,
were inseparable for the day; and in schemes of sisterly
happiness the hours flew along. Mrs. Thorpe and her son,
who were acquainted with every thing, and who seemed only
to want Mr. Morland's consent, to consider Isabella's
engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable
for their family, were allowed to join their counsels, and add
their quota of significant looks and mysterious expressions to
fill up the measure ofcuriosity to be raised in the unprivileged
younger sisters. To Catherine's simple feelings, this odd sort
of reserve seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported;
and its unkindness she would hardly have forborn
pointing out, had its inconsistency been less their friend;--
but Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the sagacity
of their 'I know what;' and the evening was spent in a sort of
war of wit, a display of family ingenuity; on one side in the
mystery of an affected secret, on the other of undefined discovery,
all equally acute.
Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring
to support her spirits, and while away the many
tedious hours before the delivery of the letters; a needful
exertion, for as the time of reasonable expectation drew near,
Isabella became more and more desponding, and before the
letter arrived, had worked herself into a state of real distress.
But when it did come, where could distress be found ? 'I have
had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind parents,
and am promised that every thing in their power shall be done
to forward my happiness," were the first three lines, and in
one moment all was joyful security. The brightest glow was
instantly spread over Isabella's features, all care and anxiety
seemed removed, her spirits became almost too high for
controul, and she called herself without scruple the happiest
of mortals.
Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter,
her son, her visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants
of Bath with satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing
with tenderness. It was "dear John,' and "dear Catherine' at
every word;--"dear Anne and dear Maria' must immediately
be made sharers in their felicity; and two "dears' at once
before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved
child had now well earned. John himself was no skulker in
joy. He not only bestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation
of being one of the finest fellows in the world, but
swore off many sentences in his praise.
The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing
little more than this assurance of success; and every
particular was deferred till James could write again. But for
particulars Isabella could well afford to wait. The needful
was comprised in Mr. Morland's promise; his honour was
pledged to make every thing easy; and by what means their
income was to be formed, whether landed property were to
be resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which
her disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to
feel secure of an honourable and speedy establishment, and
her imagination took a rapid flight over its attendant felicities.
She saw herself at the end of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration
of every new acquaintance at Fullerton, the envy of every
valued old friend in Putney, with a carriage at her command,
a new name on her tickets," and a brilliant exhibition of hoop
rings' on her finger.
When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John
Thorpe, who had only waited its arrival to begin his journey
to London, prepared to set off. "Well, Miss Morland,' said he,
on finding her alone in the parlour, "I am come to bid you
good bye.' Catherine wished him a good journey. Without
appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgetted
about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.
"Shall not you be late at Devizes ?' said Catherine. He made
no answer; but after a minute's silence burst out with, "A
famous good thing this marrying scheme, upon my soul!
A clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's. What do you think
of it, Miss Morland? Isay it is no bad notion.'
 "I am sure I think it a very good one.'
"Do you?--that's honest, by heavens! I am glad you are
no enemy to matrimony however. Did you ever hear the old
song, ""Going to one wedding brings on another ?'' I say, you
will come to Belle's wedding, I hope.'
"Yes ; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.'
"And then you know'--twisting himself about and forcing
a foolish laugh--'I say, then you know, we may try the truth
of this same old song.'
"May we?--but I never sing. Well, I wish you a good
journey. I dine with Miss Tilney to-day, and must now be
going home.'
"Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry.--Who knows
when we may be together again?--Not but that I shall be
down again by the end of a fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight
it will appear t"o me.'
"Then why do you stay away so long ?' replied Catherine--
finding that he waited for an answer.
"That is kind of you, however--kind and good-natured.--
I shall not forget it in a hurry.--But you have more goodnature
and all that, than any body living I believe. A
monstrous deal of good-nature, and it is not only goodnature,
but you have so much, so much of every thing; and
then you have such--upon my soul I do not know any body
like you.'
"Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare
say, only a great deal better. Good morning to you.'
"But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects
at Fullerton before it is long, if not disagreeable.'
"Pray do.--My father and mother will be very glad to
see you.'
"And I hope--I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry
to see me.'
"Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry
to see. Company is always cheerful.'
"That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful
company, let me only have the company of the people
I love, let me only be where I like and with whom I like, and
the devil take the rest, say I.--And I am heartily glad to hear
you say the same. But I have a notion, Miss Morland, you and
I think pretty much alike upon most matters.'
"Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of.
And as to most matters, to say the truth, there are not many
that I know my own mind about.'
"By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my
brains with what does not concern me. My notion of things
is simple enough. Let me only have the girl I like, say
I, with a comfortable house over my head, and what care
I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good
income of my own; and if she had not a penny, why so much
the better.'
"Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good
fortune on one side, there can be no occasion for any on
the other. No matter which has it, so that there is enough.
I hate the idea of one great fortune looking out for another.
And to marry for money I think the wickedest thing in
existence.--Good day.--We shall be very glad to see you
at Fullerton, whenever it is convenient.' And away she went.
It was not in the power of all his gallantry to detain her
longer. With such news to communicate, and such a visit
to prepare for, her departure was not to be delayed by any
thing in his nature to urge; and she hurried away, leaving
him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address,
and her explicit encouragement.
The agitation which she had herself experienced on first
learning her brother's engagement, made her expect to
raise no inconsiderable emotion in Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by
the communication of the wonderful event. How great was
her disappointment! The important affair, which many
words of preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them
both ever since her brother's arrival; and all that they felt
on the occasion was comprehended in a wish for the young
people's happiness, with a remark, on the gentleman's
side, in favour of Isabella's beauty, and on the lady's, of her
great good luck. It was to Catherine the most surprizing
insensibility. The disclosure however of the great secret
of James's going to Fullerton the day before, did raise
some emotion in Mrs. Allen. She could not listen to that
with perfect calmness ; but repeatedly regretted the necessity
of its concealment, wished she could have known his intention,
wished she could have seen him before he went, as
she should certainly have troubled him with her best regards
to his father and mother, and her kind compliments to all
the Skinners.
<V II><C  I>
CATHERINE'S expectations of pleasure from her visit in
Milsom-street were so very high, that disappointment was
inevitable; and accordingly, though she was most politely
received by General Tilney, and kindly welcomed by his
daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else of the
party, she found, on her return, without spending many hours
in the examination of her feelings, that she had gone to her
appointment preparing for happiness which it had not
afforded. Instead of finding herself improved in acquaintance
with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse of the day, she seemed
hardly so intimate with her as before; instead of seeing Henry
Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a family
party, he had never said so little, nor been so little agreeable
and, in spite of their father's great civilities to her--in spite
of his thanks, invitations, and compliments--it had been
a release to get away from him. It puzzled her to account for
all this. It could not be General Tilney's fault. That he was
perfectly agreeable and good-natured, and altogether a very
charming man, did not admit of a doubt, for he was tall and
handsome, and Henry's father. He could not be accountable
for his children's want ofspirits, or for her want of enjoyment
in his company. The former she hoped at last might have be
accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her own
stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave
a different explanation: "It was all pride, pride, insufferably
haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the family
to be very high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of
behaviour as Miss Tilney's she had never heard ofin her life !
Not to do the honours of her house with common goodbreeding!--
To behave to her guest with such superciliousness !--
Hardly even to speak to her !'
"But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness;
she was very civil.'
"Oh ! don't defend her ! And then the brother, he, who had
appeared so attached to you! Good heavens! well, some
people's feelings are incomprehensible. And so he hardly
Looked once at you the whole day?'
"I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.'
"How contemptible ! Of all things in the world inconstancy
is my aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him
again, my dear Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.'
"Unworthy ! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me.'
"That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you.--Such
fickleness! Oh! how different to your brother and to mine!
I really believe John has the most constant heart.'
"But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible
for any body to behave to me with greater civility and
attention; it seemed to be his only care to entertain and make
me happy.'
"Oh ! I know no harm ofhim; I do not suspect him ofpride.
I believe he is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very
well of him, and John's judgment--'
"Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we
shall meet them at the rooms.'
"And must I go?'
"Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.'
"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you
nothing. But do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for
my heart, you know, will be some forty miles off. And as for
dancing, do not mention it I beg; that is quite out of the
question. Charles Hodges will plague me to death I dare say;
but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he guesses the
reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall
insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself.'
 Isabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend;
she was sure there had been no insolence in the manners either
of brother or sister; and she did not credit there being any
pride in their hearts. The evening rewarded her confidence ;
she was met by one with the same kindness, and by the other
with the same attention as heretofore : Miss Tilney took pains
to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.
Having heard the day before in Milsom-street, that their
elder brother, Captain Tilney, was expected almost every
hour, she was at no loss for the name of a very fashionablelooking,
handsome young man, whom she had never seen
before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She
looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it
possible, that some people might think him handsomer than
his brother, though, in her eyes, his air was more assuming,
and his countenance less prepossessing. His taste and manners
were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for, within her hearing,
he not only protested against every thought of dancing
himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it
possible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed,
that, whatever might be our heroine's opinion of him, his
admiration of her was not ofa very dangerous kind; not likely
to produce animosities between the brothers, nor persecutions
to the lady. He cannot be the instigator of the three villains
in horsemen's great coats, by whom she will hereafter be
forced into a travelling-chaise and four, which will drive off
with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by
presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that
of having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual
happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to
every thing he said ; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming
so herself.
At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards
them again, and, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction, pulled
his brother away. They retired whispering together; and,
though her delicate sensibility did not take immediate alarm,
and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have heard
some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now
hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of
separating them for ever, she could not have her partner conveyed
from her sight without very uneasy sensations. Her
suspense was of full five minutes' duration; and she was
beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they
both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry's
requesting to know, if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe,
would have any objection to dancing, as his brother would be
most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without
hesitation, replied, that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did
not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the
other, and he immediately walked away.
"Your brother will not mind it I know,' said she, "because
I heard him say before, that he hated dancing; but it was very
good-natured in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella
sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner; but he
is quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon any account
in the world.'
Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can give
you to understand the motive of other people's actions.'
"Why?--What do you mean ?'
"With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced ?
What is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's
feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life
considered?--but, how should I be influenced, what would
be my inducement in acting so and so ?'
"I do not understand you.'
"Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you
perfectly well.'
"Me ? -- yes ; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.'"
"Bravo !--an excellent satire on modern language.'
"But pray tell me what you mean.'
"Shall I indeed?--Do you really desire it?--But you are
not aware of the consequences; it will involve you in a very
cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring on a disagreement
between us.'
"No no- it shall not do either; I am not afraid.'
"Well then, I only meant that your attributing my brother's
wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good-nature alone, convinced
me of your being superior in good-nature yourself to
all the rest of the world.'
Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's
predictions were verified. There was a something, however,
in his words which repaid her for the pain of confusion; and
that something occupied her mind so much, that she drew
back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and almost
forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella,
she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to
give them hands across.
Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only
explanation of this extraordinary change which could at that
time be given; but as it was not quite enough for Catherine's
comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in very plain
terms to her partner.
"I cannot think how it could happen ! Isabella was so determined
not to dance.'
"And did Isabella never change her mind before?'
"Oh ! but, because--and your brother !--After what you
told him from me, how could he think of going to ask her ?'
"I cannot take surprize to myself on that head. You bid me
be surprized on your friend's account, and therefore I am;
but as for my brother, his conduct in the business, I must
own, has been no more than I believed him perfectly equal to.
The fairness of your friend was an open attraction; her firmness,
you know, could only be understood by yourself.'
"You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm
in general.'
"It is as much as should be said of any one. To be always
firm must be to be often obstinate. When properly to relax
is the trial ofjudgment ; and, without reference to my brother,
I really think Miss Thorpe has by no means chosen illin fixing
on the present hour.'
The friends were not able to get together for any confidential
discourse till all the dancing was over; but then, as they
walked about the room arm in arm, Isabella thus explained
herself:--"I do not wonder at your surprize; and I am really
fatigued to death. He is such a rattle!--Amusing enou h if
my mind had been disengaged; but I would have given the
world to sit still.'
"Then why did not you?'
"Oh! my dear! it would have looked so particular; and you
know how I abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly
could, but he would take no denial. You have no idea
how he pressed me. I begged him to excuse me, and get some
other partner--but no, not he; after aspiring to my hand,
there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of;
and it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to
be with me. Oh! such nonsense!--I told him he had taken
a very unlikely way to prevail upon me ; for, of all things in the
world, I hated fine speeches and compliments;--and so--
and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not stand
up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him,
might take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure
he would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole
evening. I am so glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded
with listening to his nonsense : and then,--being such a smart
young fellow, I saw every eye was upon us.'
"He is very handsome indeed.'
"Handsome!--Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people
would admire him in general; but he is not at all in my style
of beauty. I hate a florid complexion and dark eyes in a man.
However, he is very well. Amazingly conceited, I am sure.
I took him down several times you know in my way.'
When the young ladies next met, they had a far more
interesting subject to discuss. James Morland's second letter
was then received, and the kind intentions of his father fully
explained. A living, of which Mr. Morland was himself
patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds yearly
value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be
old enough to take it; no trifling deduction from the family
income, no niggardly assignment to one of ten children. An
estate of at least equal value, moreover, was assured as his
future inheritance.
James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming
gratitude; and the necessity of waiting between two and three
years before they could marry, being, however unwelcome,
no more than he had expected, was born by him without discontent.
Catherine, whose expectations had been as unfixed
as her ideas of her father's income, and whose judgment was
now entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied,
and heartily congratulated Isabella on having every thing so
pleasantly settled.
"It is very charming indeed,' said Isabella, with a grave
face. "Mr. Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,'
said the gentle Mrs. Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. "
I only wish I could do as much. One could not expect
more from him you know. If he finds he can do more by and
bye, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an excellent
good hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to
begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so
moderate, you do not consider how little you ever want,
my dear.'
"It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot
bear to be the means of injuring my dear Morland, making
him sit down upon an income hardly enough to find one in the
common necessaries of life. For myself, it is nothing; I never
think of myself.'
"I know you never do, my dear; and you will always
find your reward in the affection it makes every body
feel for you. There never was a young woman so beloved
as you are by every body that knows you; and I dare say
when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child--but do not
let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things.
Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome you know.
I always heard he was a most excellent man; and you
know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you
had had a suitable fortune, he would have come down with
something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberalminded
man.'
"Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am
sure. But every body has their failing you know, and every
body has a right to do what they like with their own money.'
Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. "I am very sure,'
said she, "that my father has promised to do as much as he
can afford.'
Isabella recollected herself. "As to that, my sweet Catherine,
there cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough
to be sure that a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is
not the want of more money that makes me just at present
a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if our union could
take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should not
have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have fo nd
me out. There's the sting. The long, long, endless two years
and half that are to pass before your brother can hold the
living.'
"Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,' said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly
see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly
understand the present vexation; and every body must love
you the better for such a noble honest affection.'
Catherine's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She
endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage was the
only source oflsabella's regret; and when she saw her at their
next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to
forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James
soon followed his letter, and was received with the most
gratifying kindness.
<C  II>
THE Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay
in Bath; and whether it should be the last, was for some time
a question, to which Catherine listened with a beating heart.
To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon, was
an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole
happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,
and every thing secured when it was determined that the
lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this
additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure
of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney, made but a small part of
Catherine's speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James's
engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got
so far as to indulge in a secret 'perhaps,' but in general the
felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views :
the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and
her happiness being certain for that period, the rest ofher life
was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the
course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she
visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It
was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed
her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay, than Miss Tilney
told her of her father's having just determined upon quitting
Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow ! The past
suspense ofthe morning had been ease and quiet to the present
disappointment. Catherine's countenance fell, and in a voice
of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney's concluding
words, "By the end of another week !'
"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the
waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of
some friends' arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as
he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home.'
"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly, "if I had
known this before--'
"Perhaps,' said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner,
"you would be so good--it would make me very happy
if--'
The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which
Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of
their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual
politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor,
may I congratulate you on being successful in your application
to your fair friend?'
"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you
came in.'
"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart
is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,' he continued, without
leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very
bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on
Saturday se'nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that
my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in
my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General
Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing
to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish
point with you, we should leave it without a single regret.
Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public
triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company
in Gloucestershire ? I am almost ashamed to make the request,
though its presumption would certainly appear greater to
every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as your's--
but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you
can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us
happy beyond expression. "Tis true, we can offer you nothing
like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither
by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you
see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be
wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly
disagreeable.
Northanger Abbey!--These were thrilling words, and
wound up Catherine's feelings to the highest point of extasy.
Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its
expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To
receive so flattering an invitation ! To have her company so
warmly solicited ! Every thing honourable and soothing, every
present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it,
and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of papa and
mamma's approbation, was eagerly given.--"I will write home
directly,' said she, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they
will not'--
General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited
on her excellent friends in Pulteney-street, and obtained their
sanction of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with
you,' said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world.'
Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary
civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly
settled, as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow.
The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's feelings
through the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment ;
but they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss ;
and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry at her heart,
and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write
her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the discretion
of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their
daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance
which had been formed under their eye, and sent therefore
by return of post their ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire.
This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had
hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured beyond
every other human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance
and chance. Every thing seemed to co-operate for her
advantage. By the kindness of her first friends the Allens, she
had been introduced into scenes, where pleasures of every
kind had met her. Her feelings, her preferences had each
known the happiness of a return. Wherever she felt attachment,
she had been able to create it. The affection oflsabella
was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys, they, by
whom above all, she desired to be favourably thought of, outstripped
even her wishes in the flattering measures by which
their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their
chosen visitor, she was to be for weeks under the same roof
with the person whose society she mostly prized--and, in
addition to all the rest, this roof was to be the roof of an abbey !
--Her passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to her
passion for Henry Tilney--and castles and abbies made
usually the charm of those reveries which his image did not
fill. To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the
one, or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks
a darling wish, though to be more than the visitor of an hour,
had seemed too nearly impossible for desire. And yet, this was
to happen. With all the chances against her of house, hall,
place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an
abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp
passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be within
her daily reach, and she could not entirely subdue the hope
of some traditional legends, some awful memorials of an
injured and ill-fated nun.
It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little
elated by the possession of such a home; that the consciousness
ofit should be so meekly born. The power of early habit
only could account for it. A distinction to which they had been
born gave no pride. Their superiority of abode was no more to
them than their superiority of person.
Many were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss
Tilney; but so active were her thoughts, that when these
inquiries were answered, she was hardly more assured than
before, of Northanger Abbey having been a richly-endowed
convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having fallen
into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,
of a large portion of the ancient building still making
a part of the present dwelling although the rest was decayed,
or of its standing low in a valley, sheltered from the north and
east by rising woods of oak.
<C  III>
WITH a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly
aware that two or three days had passed away, without her
seeing Isabella for more than a few minutes together. She
began first to be sensible of this, and to sigh for her conversation,
as she walked along the Pump-room one morning, by
Mrs. Allen's side, without any thing to say or to hear; and
scarcely had she felt a five minutes' longing of friendship,
before the object ofit appeared, and inviting her to a secret
conference, led the way to a seat. "This is my favourite place,'
said she, as they sat down on a bench between the doors,
which commanded a tolerable view of every body entering at
either, "it is so out of the way.'
Catherine, observing that Isabella's eyes were continually
bent towards one door or the other, as in eager expectation,
and remembering how often she had been falsely accused of
being arch, thought the present a fine opportunity for being
really so ; and therefore gaily said, "Do not be uneasy, Isabella.
James will soon be here.'
"Psha ! my dear creature,' she replied, "do not think me such
a simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him to my
elbow. It would be hideous to be always together; we should
be the jest of the place. And so you are going to Northanger !--
I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the finest old places in
England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most particular
description of it.'
"You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But
who are you looking for? Are your sisters coming ?'
"I am not looking for any body. One's eyes must be somewhere,
and you know what a foolish trick I have offixing mine,
when my thoughts are an hundred miles off. I am amazingly
absent; I believe I am the most absent creature in the world.
Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a certain stamp '
"But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to
tell me?'
"Oh! yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was
saying. My poor head ! I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is
this, I have just had a letter from John;--you can guess the
contents.'
"No, indeed, I cannot.'
"My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What
can he write about, but yourself? You know he is over head
and ears in love with you.'
"With me, dear Isabella !'
"Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd!
Modesty, and all that, is very well in its way, but really a little
common honesty is sometimes quite as becoming. I have no
idea of being so overstrained ! It is fishing for compliments.
His attentions were such as a child must have noticed. And
it was but half an hour before he left Bath, that you gave him
the most positive encouragement. He says so in this letter,
says that he as good as made you an offer, and that you received
his advances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge
his suit, and say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is in
vain to affect ignorance.'
Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her
astonishment at such a charge, protesting her innocence of
every thought of Mr. Thorpe's being in love with her, and the
consequent impossibility of her having ever intended to
encourage him. "As to any attentions on his side, I do declare,
upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a moment
--except just his asking me to dance the first day ofhis coming.
And as to making me an offer, or any thing like it, there must
be some unaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood
a thing of that kind, you know !--and, as I ever wish to
be believed, I solemnly protest that no syllable ofsuch a nature
ever passed between us. The last half hour before he went
away!--It must be all and completely a mistake--for I did
not see him once that whole morning.'
"But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole
morning in Edgar's Buildings--it was the day your father's
consent came--and I am pretty sure that you and John
were alone in the parlour, sometime before you left the
house.'
 "Are you?-Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say-but
for the life of me, I cannot recollect it.--I do remember now
being with you, and seeing him as well as the rest--but that
we were ever alone for five minutes--However, it is not worth
arguing about, for whatever might pass on his side, you must
be convinced, by my having no recollection of it, that I never
thought, nor expected, nor wished for any thing of the kind
from him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any
regard for me--but indeed it has been quite unintentional on
my side, I never had the smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive
him as soon as you can, and tell him I beg his pardon--that is
--I do not know what I ought to say--but make him understand
what I mean, in the properest way. I would not speak
disrespectfully of a brother of your's, Isabella, I am sure ; but
you know very well that if I could think ofone man more tha
another--he is not the person.' Isabella was silent. "My dear
friend, you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose you
brother cares so very much about me. And, you know, we
shall still be sisters.'
"Yes, yes,' (with a blush) 'there are more ways than one of
our being sisters.--But where am I wandering to?'--Wel
my dear Catherine, the case seems to be, that you are determined
against poor John--is not it so ?'
"I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly
never meant to encourage it.'
"Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any
further. John desired me to speak to you on the subject, and
therefore I have. But I confess, as soon as I read his letter,
I thought it a very foolish, imprudent business, and not likely
to promote the good of either; for what were you to live upon,
supposing you came together? You have both of you something
to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will support a family
now-a-days; and after all that romancers may say, there is n
doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it;
he could not have received my last.'
 "You do acquit then of anything wrong?-You are convinced
that I never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected
him of liking me till this moment?'
"Oh! as to that,' answered Isabella laughingly "I do not
pretend to determine what your thoughts and designs in time
past may have been. All that is best known to yourself. A little
harmless flirtation or so will occur, and one is often drawn
on to give more encouragement than one wishes to stand by.
But you may be assured that I am the last person in the world
to judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for
in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know,
one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions
alter.'
"But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was
always the same. You are describing what never happened.'
"my dearest Catherine,' continued the other without at all
listening to her, "I would not for all the world be the means of
hurrying you into an engagement before you knew what you
were about. I do not think any thing would justify me in wishing
you to sacrifice all your happiness merely to oblige my
brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after all,
you know, might be just as happy without you, for people
seldom know what they would be at, young men especially,
they are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say
is, why should a brother's happiness be dearer to me than
a friend's ? You know I carry my notions of friendship pretty
high. But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do not be in
a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great a
hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney says, there
is nothing people are so often deceived in, as the state of their
own affections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! here he
comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am sure.'
Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and
Isabella, earnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon
caught his notice. He approached immediately, and
took the seat to which her movements invited him. His first
address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she
could distinguish, "What ! always to be watched, in perso
by proxy !'
"Psha, nonsense!' was Isabella's answer in the same
whisper. "Why do you put such things into my head? If
I could believe it--my spirit, you know, is pretty independent.'
"I wish your heart were independent. That would be
enough for me.'
"My heart, indeed ! What can you have to do with hearts?
You men have none of you any hearts.'
"If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment
enough.'
"Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find any thing
so disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this
pleases you, (turning her back on him,) I hope your eyes are
not tormented now.'
"Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in
view--at once too much and too little."
Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance could
listen no longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and
jealous for her brother, she rose up, and saying she should
join Mrs. Allen, proposed their walking. But for this Isabella
shewed no inclination, She was so amazingly tired, and it was
so odious to parade about the Pump-room; and if she moved
from her seat she should miss her sisters, she was expecting
her sisters every moment; so that her dearest Catherine must
excuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine
could be stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up
to propose their returning home, she joined her and walked
out of the Pump-room, leaving Isabella still sitting with
Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did she thus leave
them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling in love
with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him
unconsciously it must be, for Isabella"s attachment to James
was as certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To
doubt her truth or good intentions was impossible; and yet,
during the whole of their conversation her manner had been
odd. She wished Isabella had talked more like her usual
and not so much about money; and had not looked so well
pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that she
should not perceive his admiration ! Catherine longed to give
her a hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the
pain which her too lively behaviour might otherwise create
both for him and her brother.
The compliment of John Thorpe's affection did not make
amends for this thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost
as far from believing as from wishing it to be sincere; for she
had not forgotten that he could mistake, and his assertion of
the offer and of her encouragement convinced her that his
mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In vanity therefore
she gained but little, her chiefprofit was in wonder. That
he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love with
her, was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his
attentions; she had never been sensible of any; but Isabella
had said many things which she hoped had been spoken in
haste, and would never be said again; and upon this she was
glad to rest altogether for present ease and comfort.
<C  IV>
A FEW days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing
herself to suspect her friend, could not help watching her
closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable.
Isabella seemed an altered creature. When she saw her
indeed surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar's
Buildings or Pulteney-street, her change of manners was so
trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed
unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that
boasted absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of
before, would occasionally come across her; but had nothing
worse appeared, that might only have spread a new grace and
inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in
public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as
they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share
with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became
too positive to be past over. What could be meant by such
unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond
her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain
she was inflicting ; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness
which Catherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer.
She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his
present comfort the woman might be who had given him her
heart, to her it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney
too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please
her, his name was a passport to her good will, and she thought
with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment;
for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in
the Pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with
a knowledge of Isabella"s engagement, that she could not,
upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous
of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the
fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by
a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and
make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance,
either opportunity or comprehension was always
against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never
understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the
Tilney family became her chief consolation ; their journey into
Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and
Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace to
every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present
no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to
Northanger, he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine
knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to
Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother's evident
partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known
her prior engagement.
"My brother does know it,' was Henry's answer.
"Does he?--then why does he stay here?'
He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something
else; but she eagerly continued "Why do not you persuade
him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for
him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for every
body's sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make
him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it
is only staying to be miserable.' Henry smiled and said, "I am
sure my brother would not wish to do that.'
"Then you will persuade him to go away?'
"Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot
even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him
that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and
must be his own master.'
"No, he does not know what he is about,' cried Catherine;
"he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that
James has ever told me 60, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.'

"And are you sure it is my brother's doing?'
"Yes, very sure.'
"Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss
Thorpe's admission of them, that gives the pain ?'
"Is not it the same thing?'
"I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No
man is offended by another man's admiration of the woman
he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment.'
Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, "Isabella is
wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is
very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with
him ever since they first met, and while my father's consent
was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You
know she must be attached to him.'
"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with
Frederick.'
"Oh ! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot
flirt with another.'
"It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt
so well as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must
each give up a little.'
After a short pause, Catherine resumed with "Then you do
not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?'
"I can have no opinion on that subject.'
"But what can your brother mean ? If he knows her engagement,
what can he mean by his behaviour.?'
"You are a very close questioner.'
"Am I?--I only ask what I want to be told.'
"But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?"
"Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart.'
"My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion,
I assure you I can only guess at.'
"Well ?'
 "Well!--Nay, if it is to be guess-work, let us all guess for
ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful.
The premises are before you. My brother is a lively, and
perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had
about a week's acquaintance with your friend, and he has
known her engagement almost as long as he has known her.'
"Well,' said Catherine, after some moments' consideration,
"you may be able to guess at your brother's intentions from all
this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable
about it?--Does not he want Captain Tilney to go
away?--Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he
would go.'
"My dear Miss Morland,' said Henry, "in this amiable
solicitude for your brother's comfort, may you not be a little
mistaken ? Are you not carried a little too far ? Would he thank
you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe's, for supposing
that her affection, or at least her good-behaviour, is
only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney?
Is he safe only in solitude?--or, is her heart constant to him
only when unsolicited by any one else ?--He cannot think this
--and you may be sure that he would not have you think it.
I will not say, ""Do not be uneasy,'' because I know that you
are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You
have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and
your friend ; depend upon it therefore, that real jealousy never
can exist between them; depend upon it that no disagreement
between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open
to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know
exactly what is required and what can be borne; and you may
be certain, that one will never tease the other beyond what is
known to be pleasant.'
Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added,
"Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably
remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days
behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must
return to his regiment.--And what will then be their acquaintance ?--
The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight,
and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney's
passion for a month.'
Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She
had resisted its approaches during the whole length of a speech,
but it now carried her captive. Henry Tilney must know best.
She blamed herself for the extent of her fears, and resolved
never to think so seriously on the subject again.
Her resolution was supported by Isabella's behaviour in
their parting interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of
Catherine's stay in Pulteney-street, and nothing passed between
the lovers to excite her uneasiness, or make her quit
them in apprehension. James was in excellent spirits, and
Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness for her friend
seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that at such
a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat
contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine
remembered Henry's instructions, and placed it all to
judicious affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the
parting fair ones may be fancied.
<C  V>
MR. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend,
-humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable
companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their
own had been gently increased. Her happiness in going with
Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it otherwise,
and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath themselves,
her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr
Allen attended her to Milsom-street, where she was to breakfast,
and saw her seated with the kindest welcome among her
new friends; but so great was her agitation in finding herself
as one of the family, and so fearful was she of not doing
exactly what was right, and of not being able to preserve their
good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first five
minutes, she could almost have wished to return with him to
Pulteney-street.
Miss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon did away
some of her unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from
being at ease ; nor could the incessant attentions ofthe General
himself entirely reassure her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she
doubted whether she might not have felt less, had she been
less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort--his continual
solicitations that she would eat, and his often-expressed fears
of her seeing nothing to her taste--though never in her life
before had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table--
made it impossible for her to forget for a moment that she
was a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and
knew not how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was not improved
by the General's impatience for the appearance of his eldest
son, nor by the displeasure he expressed at his laziness when
Captain Tilney at last came down. She was quite pained by the
severity of his father's reproof, which seemed disproportionate
to the offence; and much was her concern increased, when she
found herself the principal cause of the lecture; and that his
tardiness was chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her.
This was placing her in a very uncomfortable situation, and
she felt great compassion for Captain Tilney, without being
able to hope for his good-will.
He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any
defence, which confirmed her in fearing, that the inquietude
of his mind, on Isabella"s account, might, by keeping him long
sleepless, have been the real cause of his rising late.--It was
the first time of her being decidedly in his company, and she
had hoped to be now able to form her opinion of him; but she
scarcely heard his voice while his father remained in the room;
and even afterwards, so much were his spirits affected, she
could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whlsper to
Eleanor, "How glad I shall be when you are all off.'
The bustle of going was not pleasant.--The clock struck
ten while the trunks were carrying down, and the General had
fixed to be out of Milsom-street by that hour. His great coat,
instead of being brought for him to put on directly, was spread
out in the curricle in which he was to accompany his son. The
middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out, though there were
three people to go in it, and his daughter's maid had so crowded
it with parcels, that Miss Morland would not have room to
sit; and, so much was he influenced by this apprehension
when he handed her in, that she had some difficulty in saving
her own new writing-desk from being thrown out into the
street.--At last, however, the door was closed upon the three
females, and they set off at the sober pace in which the handsome,
highly-fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform
a journey of thirty miles : such was the distance of Northanger
from Bath to be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine's
spirits revived as they drove from the door; for with
Miss Tilney she felt no restraint; and, with the interest of
a road entirely new to her, of an abbey before, and a curricle
behind, she caught the last view of Bath without any regret,
and met with every mile-stone before she expected it. The
tediousness of a two hours' bait at Petty-France, in which
there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry,
and loiter about without any thing to see, next followed--and
her admiration of the style in which they travelled, of the
fashionable chaise-and-four--postilions handsomely liveried,
rising so regularly in their stirrups, and numerous out-riders
properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience.
Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay
would have been nothing; but General Tilney, though so
charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children's
spirits, and scarcely any thing was said but by himself; the
observation of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn
afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made
Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and
appeared to lengthen the two hours into four.--At last, however,
the order of release was given ; and much was Catherine
then surprized by the General's proposal of her taking his
place in his son's curricle for the rest of the journey:--"the
day was fine, and he was anxious for her seeing as much ofthe
country as possible.'
The remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting young
men's open carriages, made her blush at the mention of such
a plan, and her first thought was to decline it; but her second
was of greater deference for General Tilney's judgment; he
could not propose any thing improper for her; and, in the
course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry in the
curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial
convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the
world ; the chaise-and-four wheeled off with some grandeur,
to be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business, and
she could not easily forget its having stopped two hours at
Petty-France. Half the time would have been enough for the
curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses disposed to move,
that, had not the General chosen to have his own carriage lead
the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a minute.
But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses;
--Henry drove so well,--so quietly--without making any
disturbance, without parading to her, or swearing at them ; so
different from the only gentleman-coachman whom it was in
her power to compare him with!--And then his hat sat so
well, and the innumerable capes of his great coat looked so
becomingly important!--To be driven by him, next to being
dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the
world. In addition to every other delight, she had now that of
listening to her own praise; of being thanked at least, on his
sister's account, for her kindness in thus becoming her visitor ;
of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating
real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced--
she had no female companion--and, in the
frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any
companion at all.
"But how can that be?' said Catherine, "are not you
with her?'
"Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an
establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly
twenty miles from my father's, and some of my time is necessarily
spent there.'
"How sorry you must be for that !'
"I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.'
"Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so
fond of the abbey!--After being used to such a home as the
abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable.'

He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable
idea of the abbey.'
"To be sure I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what
one reads about ?'
"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that
a building such as ""what one reads about'' may produce?--
Have you a stout heart?--Nerves fit for sliding pannels and
tapestry ?'
"Oh! yes--I do not think I should be easily frightened,
because there would be so many people in the house--and
besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for
years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without
giving any notice, as generally happens.'
"No, certainly.--We shall not have to explore our way into
a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire--nor
be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without
windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when
a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling
of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest ofthe
family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house,
she is formally conducted by Dorothy the ancient housekeeper'
up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into
an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it
about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as
this ? Will not your mind misgive you, when you find yoursel
in this gloomy chamber--too lofty and extensive for you, with
only the feeble rays ofa single lamp to takein its size--its wall
hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the
bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even
funereal appearance. Will not your heart sink within you?'
"Oh ! but this will not happen to me, I am sure.'
"How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment!--
And what will you discern?--Not tables, toilettes
wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains
of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no
efforts can open, and over the fire-place the portrait of some
handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibl
strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes
from it. Dorothy meanwhile, no less struck by your appear
ance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible
hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you
reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is
undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have
a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she
curtseys off--you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps
as long as the last echo can reach you--and when, with
fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover,
with increased alarm, that it has no lock.'
"Oh ! Mr. Tilney, how frightful!--This is just like a book !
--But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper
is not really Dorothy.--Well, what then ?'
"Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night.
After surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you
will retire to rest, and get a few hours" unquiet slumber. But
on the second, or at farthest the third night after your arrival,
you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so
loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll
round the neighbouring mountains--and during the frightful
gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think
you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the
hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course
to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for
indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your
dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery.
After a very short search,-you will discover a division in the
tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest
inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear
--which door being only secured by massy bars and a padlock,
you will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening,--and, with
your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small
vaulted room.'
"No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any
such thing.'
"What! not when Dorothy has given you to understand
et subterraneous communication between
your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two
miles off--Could you shrink from so simple an adventure?
No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room, and
through this into several others, without perceiving any thing
very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be
a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the
remains of some instrument of torture; but there being
nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp
being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own
apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however,
your eyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned
cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly examining
the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by
an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it,
unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer;--but
for some time without discovering any thing of importance
--perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At
last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment
will open--a roll of paper appears:--you seize it--it
contains many sheets of manuscript--you hasten with the
precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have
you been able to decipher ""Oh! thou--whomsoever thou
mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched
Matilda may fall''--when your lamp suddenly expires in the
socket, and leaves you in total darkness.'
"Oh! no, no--do not say so. Well, go on.'
But Henry was too much amused by the interest he had
raised, to be able to carry it farther; he could no longer command
solemnity either of subject or voice, and was obliged to
entreat her to use her own fancy in the perusal of Matilda's
woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew ashamed of her
eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her attention
had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really
meeting with what he related. "Miss Tilney, she was sure,
would never put her into such a chamber as he had described !
--She was not at all afraid.'
As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience
for a sight of the abbey--for some time suspended by his conversation
on subjects very different--returned in full force,
and every bend in the road was expected with solemn awe to
afford a glimpse ofits massy walls ofgrey stone, rising amidst
a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun playing
in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so low
did the building stand, that she found herself passing through
the great gates ofthe lodge into the very grounds ofNorthanger,
without having discerned even an antique chimney.
She knew not that she had any right to be surprized, but
there was a something in this mode of approach which she
certainly had not expected. To pass between lodges of a
modern appearance, to find herself with such ease in the very
precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly along a smooth,
level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm or solemnit'
of any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent. She was not
long at leisure however for such considerations. A sudden
scud of rain driving full in her face, made it impossible for
her to observe any thing further, and fixed all her thoughts on
the welfare of her new straw bonnet:--and she was actually
under the Abbey walls, was springing, with Henry's assistance,
from the carriage, was beneath the shelter of the old
porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where her friend
and the General were waiting to welcome her, without feeling
one aweful foreboding of future misery to herself, or one
moment's suspicion of any past scenes of horror being acted
within the solemn edifice. The breeze had not seemed to waft
the sighs of the murdered to her; it had wafted nothing worse
than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a good shake to
her habit, she was ready to be shewn into the common
drawing-room, and capable of considering where she was.
An abbey !--yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey !--
but she doubted, as she looked round the room, whether any
thing within her observation, would have given her the consciousness.
The furniture was in all the profusion and
elegance of modern taste. The fire-place, where she had
expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former
times, was contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain
though handsome marble, and ornaments over it of the
prettiest English china. The windows, to which she looked
with peculiar dependence, from having heard the General
talk of his preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential
care, were yet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be
sure, the pointed arch was preserved--the form of them was
Gothic--they might be even casements--but every pane was
so large, so clear, so light ! To an imagination which had hoped
for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work, for
painted glass, dirt and cobwebs, the difference was very
distressing.
The General, perceiving how her eye was employed, began
to talk of the smallness of the room and simplicity of the
furniture, where every thing being for daily use, pretended
only to comfort, &c.; flattering himself however that there
were some apartments in the Abbey not unworthy her notice
--and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding of one in
particular, when taking out his watch, he stopped short to
pronounce it with surprize within twenty minutes of five!
This seemed the word of separation, and Catherine found
herself hurried away by Miss Tilney in such a manner as
convinced her that the strictest punctuality to the family
hours would be expected at Northanger.
Returning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended
a broad staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and
many landing-places, brought them upon a long wide gallery.
On one side it had a range of doors, and it was lighted on the
other by windows which Catherine had only time to discover
looked into a quadrangle, before Miss Tilney led the way into
a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she would find it
comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that she would
make as little alteration as possible in her dress.
<C  VI>
A MOMENT'S glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that
her apartment was very unlike the one which Henry had
endeavoured to alarm her by the description of.--It was by
no means unreasonably large, and contained neither tapestry
nor velvet.--The walls were papered, the floor was carpeted ;
the windows were neither less perfect, nor more dim than
those of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not
of the latest fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the
air of the room altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart
instantaneously at ease on this point, she resolved to lose no
time in particular examination of any thing, as she greatly
dreaded disobliging the General by any delay. Her habit
therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was
preparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat
had conveyed for her immediate accommodation, when her
eye suddenly fell on a large high chest, standing back in a deep
recess on one side of the fire-place. The sight of it made her
start; and, forgetting every thing else, she stood gazing on it
in motionless wonder, while these thoughts crossed her:--
"This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as
this !--An immense heavy chest!--What can it hold?--Why
should it be placed here ?--Pushed back too, as if meant to be
out of sight !--I will look into it--cost me what it may, I will
look into it--and directly too--by day-light.--If I stay till
evening my candle may go out.' She advanced and examined
it closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some darker
wood, and raised, about a foot from the ground, on a carved
stand of the same. The lock was silver, though tarnished from
age; at each end were the imperfect remains ofhandles also of
silver, broken perhaps prematurely by some strange violence;
and, on the centre of the lid, was a mysterious cypher, in the
same metal. Catherine bent over it intently, but without being
able to distinguish any thing with certainty. She could not, in
whatever direction she took it, believe the last letter to be
a T; and yet that it should be any thing else in that house was
a circumstance to raise no common degree ofastonishment. If
not originally their's, by what strange events could it have
fallen into the Tilney family ?
Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater;
and seizing, with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she
resolved at all hazards to satisfy herself at least as to its contents.
With difficulty, for something seemed to resist her
efforts, she raised the lid a few inches; hut at that moment
a sudden knocking at the door of the room made her, starting,
quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. This
ill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney's maid, sent by her
mistress to be of use to Miss Morland; and though Catherine
immediately dismissed her, it recalled her to the sense of
what she ought to be doing, and forced her, in spite of her
anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in her
dressing without further delay. Her progress was not quick, for
her thoughts and her eyes were still bent on the object so well
calculated to interest and alarm; and though she dared not
waste a moment upon a second attempt, she could not remain
many paces from the chest. At length, however, having slipped
one arm into her gown, her toilette seemed so nearly finished,
that the impatience of her curiosity might safely be indulged.
One moment surely might be spared ; and, so desperate should
be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by supernatural
means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back.
With this spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did
not deceive her. Her resolute effort thrcw back the lid, and
gave to her astonished eyes the view of a white cotton counterpane,
properly folded, reposing at one end of the chest in
undisputed possession !
She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprize, when
Miss Tilney, anxious for her friend's being ready, entered the
room, and to the rising shame of having harboured for some
minutes an absurd expectation, was then added the shame of
being caught in so idle a search. "That is a curious old chest,
is not it?' said Miss Tilney, as Catherine hastily closed it and
turned away to the glass. "It is impossible to say how many
generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in this
room I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I
thought it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and
bonnets. The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult to
open. In that corner, however, it is at least out of the way.'
Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing,
tying her gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most
violent dispatch. Miss Tilney gently hinted her fear of being
late; and in half a minute they ran down stairs together, in an
alarm not wholly unfounded, for General Tilney was pacing
the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having, on the
very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence,
ordered "Dinner to be on table directly!'
Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke,
and sat pale and breathless,in a most humble mood, concerned
for his children, and detesting old chests; and the General
recovering his politeness as he looked at her, spent the rest of
his time in scolding his daughter, for so foolishly hurrying her
fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath from haste, when
there was not the least occasion for hurry in the world: but
Catherine could not at all get over the double distress ofhaving
involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton
herself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when
the General's complacent smiles, and a good appetite of her
own, restored her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble
room, suitable in its dimensions to a much larger drawingroom
than the one in common use, and fitted up in a style of
luxury and expense which was almost lost on the unpractised
eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its spaciousness
and the number of their attendants. Of the former, she spoke
aloud her admiration; and the General, with a very gracious
countenance, acknowledged that it was by no means an illsized
room ; and further confessed, that, though as careless on
such subjects as most people, he did look upon a tolerably large
eating-room as one of the necessaries of life; he supposed,
however, "that she must have been used to much better sized
apartments at Mr. Allen's ?'
"No, indeed,' was Catherine's honest assurance; "Mr.
Allen's dining-parlour was not more than half as large:'
and she had never seen so large a room as this in her life.
The General's good-humour increased.--Why, as he had
such rooms, he thought it would be simple not to make
use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might
be more comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr. Allen's
house, he was sure, must be exactly of the true size for
rational happiness.
The evening passed without any further disturbance, and,
in the occasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive
cheerfulness. It was only in his presence that Catherine
felt the smallest fatigue from her journey; and even then
even in moments of languor or restraint, a sense of general
happiness preponderated, and she could think of her friends
in Bath without one wish of being with them.
The night was stormy ; the wind had been rising at intervals
the whole afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it
blew and rained violently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall,
listened to the tempest with sensations of awe; and, when she
heard it rage round a corner of the ancient building and close
with sudden fury a distant door, felt for the first time that
she was really in an Abbey.--Yes, these were characteristic
sounds ;--they brought to her recollection a countless variety
of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings
had witnessed, and such storms ushered in ; and most heartily
did she rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her
entrance within walls so solemn !--She had nothing to dread
from midnight assassins or drunken gallants. Henry had
certainly been only in jest in what he had told her that morning.
In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could have
nothing to explore or to suffer; and might go to her bedroom
as securely as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton.
Thus wisely fortifying her mind, as she proceeded up stairs,
she was enabled, especially on perceiving that Miss Tilney
slept only two doors from her, to enter her room with a tolerably
stout heart; and her spirits were immediately assisted by
the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. "How much better is this,'
said she, as she walked to the fender--"how much better to
find a fire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the cold
till all the family are in bed, as so many poor girls have been
obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old servant frightening
one by coming in with a faggot How glad I am that
Northanger is what it is ! If it had been like some other places,
I do not know that, in such a night as this, I could have
answered for my courage:--but now, to be sure, there is
nothing to alarm one.'
She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed
in motion. It could be nothing but the violence of the wind
penetrating through the divisions of the shutters; and she
stept boldly forward, carelessly humming a tune, to assure
herself of its being so peeped courageously behind each
curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her,
not care if she were the last person up in the house. But she
would not make up her fire; that would seem cowardly, as if
she wished for the protection oflight after she were in bed.'
The fire therefore died away, and Catherine, having spent the
best part of an hour in her arrangements, was beginning to
think of stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance
round the room, she was struck by the appearance of a high,
old-fashoned black cabinet, which, though in a situation conspicuous
enough, had never caught her notice before. Henry's
words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to
escape her observation at first, immediatly rushed across
her; and though there could be nothing really in it, there was
something whimsical, it was certainly a very remarkable
coincidence! She took her candle and looked closely at the
cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold; but it was
Japan, black and yellow Japan of the handsomest kind; and
as she heid her candle, the yellow had very much the effect
of gold. The key was in the door, and she had a strange fancy
to look into it; not however with the smallest expectation of
finding any thing, but it was so very odd, after what Henry
had said. In short, she could not sleep until she had examined it.
So, placing the candle with great caution on a chair, she seized
the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to open it; but it
resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged,
she tried it another way; a bolt flew, and she believed herself
sucessful; but how strangely mysterious!--the door was
still immoveable. She paused a moment in breathless wonder.
The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in torrents
against the windows, and every thing seemed to speak the
awfulness of her situation, To retire to bed however, unsatisfied
on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be
impossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously
closed in her immediate vicinity. Again therefore she applied
herself to the key, and after moving it in every possible way
for some instants with the determined celerity of hope's last
effort, the door suddenly yielded to her hand : her heart leaped
with exultation at such a victory, and having thrown open each
folding door, the second being secured only by bolts of less
wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her eye
could not discern any thing unusual, a double range of small
drawers appeared in view, with some larger drawers above
and below them; and in the centre, a small door, closed also
with a lock and key, secured in all probability a cavity of
importance.
Catherine's heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail
her. With a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with
curiosity, her fingers grasped the handle of a drawer and drew
it forth. It was entirely empty. With less alarm and greater
eagerness she seized a second, a third, a fourth; each was
equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not one
was any thing found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure,
the possibility of false linings to the drawers did not
escape her, and she felt round each with anxious acuteness in
vain. The place in the middle alone remained now unexplored ;
and though she had 'never from the first had the smallest idea
of finding any thing in any part of the cabinet, and was not in
the least disappointed at her ill success thus far, it would be
foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was about it.'
It was some time however before she could unfasten the door,
the same difficulty occurring in the management of this inner
lock as ofthe outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as
hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll
of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity,
apparently for concealment, and her feelings at that moment
were indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled,
and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady hand,
the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain
written characters; and while she acknowledged with awful
sensations this striking exemplification of what Henry had
foretold, resolved instantly to peruse every line before she
attempted to rest.
The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn
to it with alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction,
it had yet some hours to burn; and that she might not
have any greater difficulty in distinguishing the writing than
what its ancient date might occasion, she hastily snuffed it.
Alas! it was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp could
not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a few
moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely ;
not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the
rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable and immoveable
filled the room. A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden
fury, added fresh horror to the moment. Catherine trembled
from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound like
receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck on
her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. A
cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her
hand, and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in,
and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far underneath
the clothes. To close her eyes in sleep that night, she
felt must be entirely out of the question. With a curiosity so
justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated, repose
must be absolutely impossible. The storm too abroad so
dreadful!--She had not been used to feel alarm from wind,
but now every blast seemed fraught with awful intelligence.
The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully
accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it to be
accounted for?--What could it contain?--to whom could it
relate?--by what means could it have been so long concealed?--
and how singularly strange that it should fall to
her lot to discover it ! Till she had made herself mistress ofits
contents, however, she could have neither repose nor comfort ;
and with the sun's first rays she was determined to peruse it.
But many were the tedious hours which must yet intervene.
She shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and envied every
quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, and various were the
noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck at
intervals on her startled ear. The very curtains of her bed
seemed at one moment in motion, and at another the lock of
her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to
enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery,
and more than once her blood was chilled by the sound of
distant moans. Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied
Catherine had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the
house, before the tempest subsided, or she unknowingly fell
fast asleep.
<C  VII>
THE housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at eight
o'clock the next day, was the sound which first roused Catherine ;
and she opened her eyes, wondering that they could ever
have been closed, on objects of cheerfulness; her fire was
already burning, and a bright morning had succeeded the
tempest of the night. Instantaneously with the consciousness
of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript ; and
springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid's
going away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which
had burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew
back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She
now plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of
equal length with the generality of what she had shuddered
over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small
disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much
less than she had supposed it to be at first.
Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at
its import. Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her
false ? --An inventory oflinen, in coarse and modern characters,
seemed all that was before her! If the evidence of sight might
be trusted, she held a washing-bill in her hand. She seized
another sheet, and saw the same articles with little variation;
a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts,
stockings, cravats and waistcoats faced her in each. Two
others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure
scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoestring
and breeches-ball.' And the larger sheet, which had
inclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramp line, "To poultice
chesnut mare,'--a farrier's bill! Such was the collection of
papers, (left perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the
negligence of a servant in the place whence she had taken
them,) which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and
robbed her of half her night's rest! She felt humbled to the
dust. Could not the adventure of the chest have taught her
wisdom ? A corner ofit catching her eye as she lay, seemed to
rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now be clearer
than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that
a manuscript of many generations back could have remained
undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so habitable !
--or that she should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking
a cabinet, the key of which was open to all!
How could she have so imposed on herself? --Heaven forbid
that Henry Tilney should ever know her folly! And it was in
a great measure his own doing, for had not the cabinet
appeared so exactly to agree with his description of her
adventures, she should never have felt the smallest curiosity
about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient
to get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable
papers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and
folding them up as nearly as possible in the same shape as
before, returned them to the same spot within the cabinet,
with a very hearty wish that no untoward accident might ever
bring them forward again, to disgrace her even with herself.
Why the locks should have been so difficult to open however,
was still something remarkable, for she could now
manage them with perfect ease. In this there was surely
something mysterious, and she indulged in the flattering suggestion
for half a mlnute, till the possibility of the door's
having been at first unlocke
darted into her head, and cost her another blush.
She got away as soon as she could from a room in which her
conduct produced such unpleasant reflections, and found her
way with all speed to the
pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the evening before. Henry
was alone in it; and his immediate hope of having been
undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference to the
character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing.
For the world would she not have her weakness
suspected; and yet, unequal to an absolute falsehood, was
constrained to acknowledge that the wind had kept her awake
a little. "But we have a charming morning after it,' she added,
desiring to get rid of the subject; "and storms and sleeplessness
are nothing when they are over. What beautiful hyacinths !
--I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.'
"And how might you learn ?--By accident or argument ?'
"Your sister taught me ; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used
to take pains, year after year, to make me like them ; but I never
could, till I saw them the other day in Milsom-street; I am
naturally indifferent about flowers,'
"But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You
have gained a new source of enjoyment, and it is well to have
as many holds upon happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for
flowers is always desirable in your sex, as a means of getting
you out of doors, and tempting you to more frequent exercise
than you would otherwise take. And though the love of a
hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment
once raised, but you may in time come to love a rose?'
"But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out ofdoors.
The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for
me, and in fine weather I am out more than half my time.--
Mamma says, I am never within.'
"At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt
to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the
thing; and a teachableness of disposition in a young lady is
a great blessing.--Has my sister a pleasant mode of instruction ?'

Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an
answer, by the entrance of the General, whose smiling compliments
announced a happy state of mind, but whose gentle
hint of sympathetic early rising did not advance her composure.

The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine's
notice when they were seated at table; and, luckily, it
had been the General's choice. He was enchanted by her
approbation of his taste, confessed it to be neat and simple,
thought it right to encourage the manufacture of his country ;
and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea was as well
flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of
Dresden or Seve. But this was quite an old set, purchased
two years ago. The manufacture was much improved since
that time; he had seen some beautiful specimens when last in
town, and had he not been perfectly without vanity of that
kind, might have been tempted to order a new set. He trusted,
however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of selecting
one--though not for himself. Catherine was probably the
only one of the party who did not understand him.
Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston,
where business required and would keep him two or three
days. They all attended in the hall to see him mount his horse,
and immediately on re-entering the breakfast room, Catherine
walked to a window in the hope of catching another glimpse
of his figure. "This is a somewhat heavy call upon your
brother's fortitude,' observed the General to Eleanor.
"Woodston will make but a sombre appearance to-day.'
"Is it a pretty place?' asked Catherine.
"What say you, Eleanor?--speak your opinion, for ladies
can best tell the taste of ladies in regard to places as well as
men. I think it would be acknowledged by the most impartial
eye to have many recommendations. The house stands among
fine meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent
kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding
which I built and stocked myself about ten years ago, for the
benefit of my son It is a family living, Miss Morland; an
the property in the place being chiefly my own, you may
believe I take care that it shall not be a bad one. Did Henry's
income depend solely on this living, he would not be ill provided
for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two younger
children, I should think any profession necessary for him ; and
certainly there are moments when we could all wish him disengaged
from every tie of business. But though I may not
exactly make converts of you young ladies, I am sure your
father, Miss Morland, would agree with me in thinking it
expedient to give every young man some employment. The
money is nothing, it is not an object, but employment is the
thing. Even Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will
perhaps inherit as considerable a landed property as any
private man in the county, has his profession."
The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his
wishes. The silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.
Something had been said the evening before of her being
shewn over the house, and he now offered himself as her
conductor; and though Catherine had hoped to explore it
accompanied only by his daughter, it was a proposal of too
much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not to be
gladly accepted; for she had been already eighteen hours in
the Abbey, and had seen only a few ofits rooms. The nettingbox,
just leisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste,
and she was ready to attend him in a moment. "And when they
had gone over the house, he promised himself moreover the
pleasure of accompanying her into the shrubberies and
garden.' She curtsied her acquiescence. "But perhaps it might
be more agreeable to her to make those her first object. The
weather was at present favourable, and at this time of year the
uncertainty was very great of its continuing so.--Which
would she prefer? He was equally at her service.--Which did
his daughter think would most accord with her fair friend's
wishes ? --But he thought he could discern.--Yes, he certainly
read in Miss Morland's eyes a judicious desire of making use
of the present smiling weather.--But when did she judge
amiss?--The Abbey would be always safe and dry.--He
yielded implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them
in a moment.' He left the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed,
anxious face, began to speak of her unwillingness
that he should be taking them out of doors against his own
inclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her; but she
was stopt by Miss Tilney's saying, with a little confusion,
"I believe it will be wisest to take the morning while it is so
fine; and do not be uneasy on my father's account, he always
walks out at this time of day.'
Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood.
Why was Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be
any unwillingness on the General's side to shew her over the
Abbey? The proposal was his own. And was not it odd that
he should always take his walk so early ? Neither her father nor
Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking. She was
all impatience to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity
about the grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed !--
but now she should not know what was picturesque when she
saw it. Such were her thoughts, but she kept them to herself,
and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.
She was struck however, beyond her expectation, by
the grandeur of the Abbey, as she saw it for the first time
from the lawn. The whole building enclosed a large
court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich in Gothic
ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder
was shut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations,
and the steep woody hills rising behind to give it
shelter, were beautiful even in the leafless month of March.
Catherine had seen nothing to compare with it; and her
feelings of delight were so strong, that without waiting
for any better authority, she boldly burst torth in wonder
and praise. The General listened with assenting gratitude;
and it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had
waited unfixed till that hour.
The kitchen-garden was to be next admired and he led
the way to it across a small portion of the park.
The number of acres contained in this garden was such as
Catherine could not listen to without dismay, being more than
double the extent of all Mr. Allen's, as well as her father's,
including church-yard and orchard. The walls seemed countless
in number, endless in length; a village of hot-houses
seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at work
within the inclosure. The General was flattered by her looks
of surprize, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon
forced her to tell him in words, that she had never seen any
gardens at all equal to them before;--and he then modestly
owned that, "without any ambition of that sort himself--without
any solicitude about it,--he did believe them to be unrivalled
in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was that.
He loved a garden. Though careless enough in most matters
of eating, he loved good fruit--or ifhe did not, his friends and
children did. There were great vexations however attending
such a garden as his. The utmost care could not always secure
the most valuable fruits. The pinery had yielded only one
hundred in the last year. Mr. Allen, he supposed, must feel
these inconveniences as well as himself.'
"No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden,
and never went into it.'
With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the General
wished he could do the same, for he never entered his, without
being vexed in some way or other, by its falling short of
his plan.
"How were Mr. Allen's succession-houses" worked ?'
describing the nature of his own as they entered them.
"Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen
had the use of for her plants in winter, and there was a fire
in it now and then.'
"He is a happy man !' said the General, with a look of very
happy contempt.
Having taken her into every division, and led her under
every wall, till she was heartily weary of seeing and wondering,
he suffered the girls at last to seize the advantage of an outer
door, and then expressing his wish to examine the effect of
some recent alterations about the tea-house, proposed it as no
unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss Morland were not
tired. "But where are you going, Eleanor ? --Why do you chuse
that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland will get wet. Our
best way is across the park '
"This is so favourite a walk of mine,' said Miss Tilney, "that
I always think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it ma'
be damp.'
It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old
Scotch firs; and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and
eager to enter it, could not, even by the General's disapprobation,
be kept from stepping forward. He perceived her inclination,
and having again urged the plea of health In valn, was
too polite to make further opposition. He excused himself
however from attending them:--"The rays of the sun were
not too cheerful for him, and he would meet them by another
course.' He turned away; and Catherine was shocked to find
how much her spirits were relieved by the separation. The
shock however being less real than the relief, offered it no
injury; and she began to talk with easy gaiety of the delightful
melancholy which such a grove inspired.
"I am particularly fond of this spot,' said her companion,
with a sigh. "It was my mother's favourite walk.'
Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the
family before, and the interest excited by this tender remembrance,
shewed itselfdirectly in her altered countenance, and in
the attentive pause with which she waited for something more.
"I used to walk here so often with her!' added Eleanor;
"though I never loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that
time indeed I used to wonder at her choice. But her memory
endears it now.'
"And ought it not,' reflected Catherine, "to endear it to her
husband? Yet the General would not enter it.' Miss Tilney
continuing silent, she ventured to say, "Her death must have
been a great affliction !'
"A great and increasing one,' replied the other, in a low
voice. "I was only thirteen when it happened ; and though I felt
my loss perhaps as strongly as one so young could feelit, I did
not, I could not then know what a loss it was.' She stopped for
a moment, and then added, with great firmness, "I have no
sister, you know--and though Henry--though my brothers
are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I
am most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often
solitary.'
"To be sure you must miss him very much.'
"A mother would have been always present. A mother
would have been a constant friend; her influence would have
been beyond all other.'
"Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome?
Was there any picture of her in the Abbey ? And why had she
been so partial to that grove ? Was it from dejection of spirits ?'
 --were questions now eagerly poured forth;--the first three
received a ready affirmative, the two others were passed by;
and Catherine's interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented
with every question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness
in marriage, she felt persuaded. The General
certainly had been an unkind husband. He did not love her
walk :--could he therefore have loved her ? And besides, handsome
as he was, there was a something in the turn of his
features which spoke his not having behaved well to her.
"Her picture, I suppose,' blushing at the consummate art
of her own question, "hangs in your father's room ?'
"No ;--it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father
was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had
no place. Soon after her death I obtained it for my own, and
hung it in my bed-chamber--where I shall be happy to shew
it you;--it is very like.'--Here was another proof. A portrait
--very like--ofa departed wife, not valued by the husband !--
He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!
Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the
nature of the feelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he
had previously excited; and what had been terror and dislike
before was now absolute aversion. Yes, aversion ! His cruelty
to such a charming woman made him odious to her. She had
often read of such characters; characters, which Mr. Allen
had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn ; but here was
proof positive of the contrary.
She had just settled this point, when the end of the path
brought them directly upon the General; and in spite of all
her virtuous indignation, she found herself again obliged to
walk with him, listen to him, and even to smile when he smiled.
Being no longer able however to receive pleasure from the
surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with lassitude;
the General perceived it, and with a concern for her health,
which seemed to reproach her for her opinion ofhim, was most
urgent for returning with his daughter to the house. He would
follow them in a quarter of an hour. Again they parted--but
Eleanor was called back in half a minute to receive a strict
charge against taking her friend round the Abbey till his
return. This second instance of his anxiety to delay what she
charge against taking her friend around the Abbey till his
return. This second instance of his anxiety to delay what she
so much wished for, struck Catherine as very remarkable.
<C  VIII>
AN hour passed away before the General came in, spent, on
the part of his young guest, in no very favourable consideration
of his character.--"This lengthened absence, these
solitary rambles, did not speak a mind at ease, or a conscience
void of reproach."--At length he appeared; and, whatever
might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still
smile with them. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her
friend's curiosity to see the house, soon revived the subject;
and her father being, contrary to Catherine's expectations,
unprovided with any pretence for further delay, beyond that
of stopping five minutes to order refreshments to be in the
room by their return, was at last ready to escort them.
They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified
step, which caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of
the well-read Catherine, he led the way across the hall, through
the common drawing-room and one useless anti-chamber,
into a room magnificent both in size and furniture--the real
drawing-room, used only with company of consequence.--It
was very noble--very grand--very charming!--was all that
Catherine had to say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely
discerned the colour of the satin ; and all minuteness of praise,
all praise that had much meaning, was supplied by the
General: the costliness or elegance of any room's fitting-up
could be nothing to her; she cared for no furniture of a more
modern date than the fifteenth century. When the General had
satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination ofevery wellknown
ornament, they proceeded into the library, an apartment,
in its way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection
of books, on which an humble man might have looked with
pride.--Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more
genuine feeling than before--gathered all that she could from
this storehouse of knowledge, by running over the titles of
half a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites ofapartments
did not spring up with her wishes.--Large as was the building,
she had already visited the greatest part; though, on being
told that, with the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven
rooms she had now seen surrounded three sides of the court,
she could scarcely believe it, or overcome the suspicion ofthere
being many chambers secreted. It was some relief, however,
that they were to return to the rooms in common use, by passing
through a few of less importance, looking into the court,
which, with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate, connected
the different sides;--and she was further soothed in
her progress, by being told, that she was treading what
had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed out,
and observing several doors, that were neither opened nor
explained to her;--by finding herself successively in a
billiard-room, and in the General's private apartment, without
comprehending their connexion, or being able to turn
aright when she left them ; and lastly, by passing through a dark
little room, owning Henry's authority, and strewed with his
litter of books, guns, and great coats.
From the dining-room of which, though already seen, and
always to be seen at five o'clock, the General could not forego
the pleasure of pacing out the length, for the more certain
information of Miss Morland, as to what she neither doubted
nor cared for, they proceeded by quick communication to the
kitchen--the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the massy
walls and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot
closets ofthe present. The General's improving hand had not
loitered here: every modern invention to facilitate the labour
of the cooks, had been adopted within this, their spacious
theatre ; and, when the genius of others had failed, his own had
often produced the perfection wanted. His endowments ofthis
spot alone might at any time have placed him high among the
benefactors of the convent.
With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the
Abbey ; the fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account
of its decaying state, been removed by the General's father,
and the present erected in its place. All that was venerable
ceased here. The new building was not only new, but declared
itself to be so; intended only for offices, and enclosed behind
by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been
thought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand
which had swept away what must have been beyond the value
of all the rest, for the purposes of mere domestic economy;
and would willingly have been spared the mortification of
a walk through scenes so fallen, had the General allowed it;
but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his offices;
and as he was convinced, that, to a mind like Miss Morland's,
a view of the accommodations and comforts, by which the
labours of her inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying,
he should make no apology for leading her on. They took
a slight survey of all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond
her expectation, by their multiplicity and their convenience.
The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries and a comfortless
scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were
here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and
roomy. The number of servants continually appearing, did
not strike her less than the number of their offices. Wherever
they went, some pattened girl stopped to curtsey, or some
footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet this was an Abbey !--
How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements
from such as she had read about--from abbeys and castles, in
which, though certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty
work of the house was to be done by two pair of female hands
at the utmost. How they could get through it all, had often
amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was
necessary here, she began to be amazed herself.
They returned to the hall, that the chief stair-case might
be ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of
rich carving might be pointed out: having gained the top,
they turned in an opposite direction from the gallery in which
her room lay, and shortly entered one on the same plan,-but
superior in length and breadth. She was here shewn successively
into three large bed-chambers, with their dressingrooms,
most completely and handsomely fitted up; every
thing that money and taste could do, to give comfort and
elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and,
being furnished within the last five years, they were perfect
in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that
could give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying the
last, the General, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished
characters, by whom they had at times been
honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine,
and ventured to hope, that henceforward some of their earliest
tenants might be "our friends from Fullerton.' She felt the
unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility
of thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards
herself, and so full of civility to all her family.
The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss
Tilney, advancing, had thrown open, and passed through,
and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first door
to the left, in another long reach of gallery, when the General,
coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as Catherine thought,
rather angrily back, demanding whither she were going?--
And what was there more to be seen ?--Had not Miss Morland
already seen all that could be worth her notice ?--And did she
not suppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment
after so much exercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and
the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine,
who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond them, a
narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms
of a winding stair-case, believed herself at last within the
reach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly
paced back the gallery, that she would rather be
allowed to examine that end of the house, than see all the finery
of all the rest.--The General's evident desire of preventing
such an examination was an additional stimulant. Somethlng
was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had
trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here;
and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss
Tilney's, as they followed the General at some distance down
stairs, seemed to point out:--"I was going to take you into
what was my mother's room--the room in which she died--'
were all her words ; but few as they were, they conveyed pages
ofintelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the General
should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room
must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him
since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering
wife, and left him to the stings of conscience.
She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her
wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that
side of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there,
whenever they should have a convenient hour. Catherine
understood her:--the General must be watched from home,
before that room could be entered. "It remains as it was, I suppose ?'
said she, in a tone of feeling.
"Yes, entirely.'
"And how long ago may it be that your mother died?'
"She has been dead these nine years.' And nine years,
Catherine knew was atrifle of time, compared with what
generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before
her room was put to rights.
"You were with her, I suppose, to the last?'
"No,' said Miss Tilney, sighing ; "I was unfortunately from
home.--Her illness was sudden and short; and, before
I arrived it was all over.'
Catherine's blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions
which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be possible?--
Could Henry's father?--And yet how many were
the examples to justify even the blackest suspicions !--And,
when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with her
friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together
in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted
brow, she felt secure from all possibility of wronging him. It
was the air and attitude of a Montoni!--What could more
plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead
to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes
of guilt ? Unhappy man ! --And the anxiousness of her spirits
directed her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch
Miss Tilney's notice. "My father,' she whispered, "often walks
about the room in this way; it is nothing unusual.'
 "So much the worse!' thought Catherine; such ill-timed
exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of
his morning walks, and boded nothing good.
After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of
which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry's importance
among them, she was heartily glad to be dismissed; though it
was a look from the General not designed for her observation
which sent his daughter to the bell. When the butler would
have lit his master's candle, however, he was forbidden. The
latter was not going to retire. "I have many pamphlets to finish,'
said he to Catherine, "before I can close my eyes; and perhaps
may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after
you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed?
My eyes will be blinding for the good of others; and yours
preparing by rest for future mischief.'
But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent com
pliment, could win Catherine from thinking, that some very
different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper
repose. To be kept up for hours, after the family were in bed,
by stupid pamphlets, was not very likely. There must be some
deeper cause: something was to be done which could be done
only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs.
Tilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving
from the pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of
coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily followed.
Shocking as was the idea, it was at least better than a death
unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of things, she must
ere long be released. The suddenness of her reputed illness;
the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other children,
at the time--all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment.--
Its origin--jealousy perhaps, or wanton
cruelty--was yet to be unravelled.
In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly
struck her as not unlikely, that she might that morning have
passed near the very spot of this unfortunate woman's confinement--
might have been within a few paces of the cell in
which she languished out her days; for what part of the Abbey
could be more fitted for the purpose than that which yet bore
the traces of monastic division ? In the high-arched passage,
paved with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar
awe, she well remembered the doors of which the General
had given no account. To what might not those doors lead?
In support of the plausibility of this conjecture, it further
occurred to her, that the forbidden gallery, in which lay the
apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as
certainly as her memory could guide her, exactly over this suspected
range of cells, and the stair-case by the side of those
apartments of which she had caught a transient glimpse, communicating
by some secret means with those cells, might well
have favoured the barbarous proceedings of her husband.
Down that stair-case she had perhaps been conveyed in
a state of well-prepared insensibility !
Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own
surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone
too far; but they were supported by such appearances as made
their dismissal impossible.
The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the
guilty scene to be acting, being, according to her belief, just
opposite her own, it struck her that, if judiciously watched,
some rays of light from the General's lamp might glimmer
through the lower windows, as he passed to the prison of his
wife; and, twice before she stepped into bed, she stole gently
from her room to the corresponding window in the gallery,
to see ifit appeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must yet
be too early. The various ascending noises convinced her that
the servants must still be up. Till midnight, she supposed it
would be in vain to watch; but then, when the clock had
struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not quite
appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more. The clock
struck twelve--and Catherine had been half an hour asleep.
<C  IX>
THE next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed
examination of the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday,
and the whole time between morning and afternoon service
was required by the Generalin exercise abroad or eating cold
meat at home; and great as was Catherine's curiosity, her
courage was not equal to a wish ofexploring them after dinner,
either by the fading light of the sky between six and seven
o'clock, or by the yet more partial though stronger illumination
of a treacherous lamp. The day was unmarked therefore
by any thing to interest her imagination beyond the sight of
a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs. Tilney,
which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye
was instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal of
the highly-strained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed
to her by the inconsolable husband, who must have been in
some way or other her destroyer, affected her even to tears.
That the General, having erected such a monument should
be able to face it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that
he could sit so boldly collected within its view, maintain so
elevated an air, look so fearlessly around, nay, that he should
even enter the church, seemed wonderful to Catherine. Not
however that many instances of beings equally hardened in
guilt might not be produced. She could remember dozens
who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from
crime to crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without
any feeling of humanity or remorse; till a violent death or
a religious retirement closed their black career. The erection
of the monument itself could not in the smallest degree affect
her doubts of Mrs. Tilney's actual decease. Were she even to
descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed
to slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they were
said to be enclosed--what could it avail in such a case?
Catherine had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the
ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced, and
a supposititious funeral carried on.
The succeeding morning promised something better. The
General's early walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view,
was favourable here; and when she knew him to be out of the
house, she directly proposed to Miss Tilney the accomplishment
of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige her; and
Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise,
their first visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bedchamber.
It represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and
pensive countenance, justifying, so far, the expectations of
its new observer ; but they were not in every respect answered,
for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features, air,
complexion that should be the very counterpart the very
image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's;--the only portraits of
which she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always
an equal resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken
was taken for generations. But here she was obliged to look
and consider and study for a likeness. She contemplated it,
 however, in spite of this drawback, with much emotion ; and,
but for a yet stronger interest, would have left it unwillingly.
Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much
for any endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her
companion. Eleanor's countenance was dejected, yet sedate;
and its composure spoke her enured to all the gloomy objects
to which they were advancing. Again she passed through the
folding-doors, again her hand was upon the important lock,
and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close
the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded
figure of the General himself at the further end of the gallery,
stood before her ! The name of "Eleanor' at the same moment,
in his loudest tone, resounded through the building, giving
to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to
Catherine terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had
been her first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yet
she could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and when her
friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily by her,
had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her
own room, and, locking herself in, believed that she should
never have courage to go down again. She remained there at
least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply commiserating
the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons herself
from the angry General to attend him in his own apartment.
No summons however arrived; and at last, on seeing
a carriage drive up to the Abbey, she was emboldened to
descend and meet him under the protection of visitors. The
breakfast-room was gay with company; and she was named to
them by the General, as the friend of his daughter, in a complimentary
style, which so well concealed his resentful ire,
as to make her feel secure at least oflife for the present. And
Eleanor, with a command of countenance which did honour
to her concern for his character, taking an early occasion of
saying to her, "My father only wanted me to answer a note,'
she began to hope that she had either been unseen by the
General, or that from some consideration of policy she should
be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared
still to remain in his presence, after the company left them,
and nothing occurred to disturb it.
In the course of this morning's reflections, she came to
a resolution of making her next attempt on the forbidden door
alone. It would be much better in every respect that Eleanor
should know nothing of the matter. To involve her in the
danger of a second detection, to court her into an apartment
which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend.
The General's utmost anger could not be to herself what it
might be to a daughter ; and, besides, she thought the examination
itself would be more satisfactory if made without any
companion. It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the
suspicions, from which the other had, in all likelihood, been
hitherto happily exempt; nor could she therefore, in her
presence, search for those proofs of the General's cruelty,
which however they might yet have escaped discovery, she
felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of
some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp. Of the
way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress; and as
she wished to get it over before Henry's return, who was
expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day
was bright, her courage high; at four o'clock, the sun was now
two hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring
to dress half an hour earlier than usual.
It was done ; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery
before the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for
thought; she hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise
through the folding doors, and without stopping to look or
breathe, rushed forward to the one in question. The lock
yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen sound that
could alarm a human being. On tip-toe she entered; the room
was before her; but it was some minutes before she could
advance another step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot
and agitated every feature. -- She saw a large, well-proportioned
apartment, an handsome dimity" bed, arranged as unoccupied
with an housemaid's care, a bright Bath stove, mahogany
wardrobes and neatly-painted chairs, on which the warm
beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash
windows! Catherine had expected to have her feelings
worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt
first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common
sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not
be mistaken as to the room; but how grossly mistaken in
every thing else!--in Miss Tilney's meaning, in her own
calculation! This apartment, to which she had given a date
so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one end of what
the General's father had built. There were two other doors
in the chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets; but
she had no inclination to open either. Would the veilin which
Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she had
last read, remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to
whisper ? No : whatever might have been the General's crimes,
he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for detection.
She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her
own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly; and she
was on the point of retreating as softly as she had entered,
when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where,
made her pause and tremble. To be found there, even by
a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the General, (and he
seemed always at hand when least wanted,) much worse!--
She listened--the sound had ceased ; and resolving not to lose
a moment, she passed through and closed the door. At that
instant a door underneath was hastily opened; some one
seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of
which she had yet to pass before she could gain the gallery.
She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very
definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few
moments it gave Henry to her view. "Mr. Tilney!' she
exclaimed in a voice of more than common astonishment. He
looked astonished too. "Good God !' she continued, not
attending to his address, "how came you here?--how came
you up that staircase ?'
"How came I up that staircase !' he replied, greatly surprized.
"Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own
chamber; and why should I not come up it?'
Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could
say no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for
that explanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on
towards the gallery. "And may I not, in my turn,' said he, as
he pushed back the folding doors, "ask how you came here ?--
This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the
breakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be
from the stables to mine.'
"I have been,' said Catherine, looking down, "to see your
mother's room.'
"My mother's room !--Is there any thing extraordinar' to
be seen there ?'
"No, nothing at all.--I thought you did not mean to come
back till to-morrow.'
"I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went
away; but three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding
nothing to detain me.--You look pale.--I am afraid I alarmed
you by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you did not
know--you were not aware of their leading from the offices
in common use?'
"No, I was not.--You have had a very fine day for your ride.'
"Very;--and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into
all the rooms in the house by yourself?'
"Oh ! no; she shewed me over the greatest part on Saturday
---and we were coming here to these rooms--but only--
(dropping her voice)--your father was with us.'
"And that prevented you;' said Henry, earnestly regarding
her.--"Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage ?'
"No, I only wanted to see---Is not it very late? I must
go and dress.'
"It is only a quarter past four, (shewing his watch) and you
are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for.
Half an hour at Northanger must be enough.'
She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself
to be detained, though her dread of further questions made
her, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him.
They walked slowly up the gallery. "Have you had any letter
from Bath since I saw you?'
"No, and I am very much surprized. Isabella promised so
faithfully to write directly.'
"Promised so faithfully !--A faithful promise !--That
puzzles me.--I have heard of a faithful performance. But
a faithful promise--the fidelity of promising! It is a power
little worth knowing however, since it can deceive and pain
you. My mother's room is very commodious, is it not? Large
and cheerful-looking, and the dressing closets so well disposed!
It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment
in the house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should
not take it for her own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?'
"No.'
 "It has been your own doing entirely?'--Catherine said
nothing--After a short silence, during which he had closely
observed her, he added, "As there is nothing in the room in
itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment
of respect for my mother's character, as described by
Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I
believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that
virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending
merits of a person never known, do not often
create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would
prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her
a great deal?'
"Yes, a great deal. That is--no, not much, but what she
did say, was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly,' (slowly,
and with hesitation it was spoken,) "and you--none of you
being at home--and your father, I thought--perhaps had not
been very fond of her.'
"And from these circumstances,' he replied, (his quick eye
fixed on her's,) "you infer perhaps the probability of some
negligence--some--(involuntarily she shook her head)--or
it may be--of something still less pardonable.' She raised
her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done
before. "My mother's illness,' he continued, "the seizure which
ended in her death was sudden. The malady itself, one from
which she had often suffered, a bilious fever--its cause therefore
constitutional. On the third day, in short as soon as she
could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very
respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed
great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others
were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant
attendance for four-and-twenty hours. On the fifth day she
died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (we
were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own
observation can bear witness to her having received every
posslble attention which could spring from the affection of
those about her, or which her situation in life could command.
Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to
return only to see her mother in her coffin.'
"But your father,' said Catherine, "was he afflicted ?'
"For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him
not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as
it was possible for him to--We have not all, you know, the
same tenderness of disposition--and I will not pretend to say
that while she lived, she might not often have had much to
bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never
did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he
was truly afflicted by her death.'
"I am very glad of it,' said Catherine, "it would have been
very shocking !'--
"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of
such horror as I have hardly words to---Dear Miss Morland,
consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have
entertained. What have you been judging from ? Remember
the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we
are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding,
your own sense of the probable, your own observation
of what is passing around you--Does our education prepare
us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them?
Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country
like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such
a footing; where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood
of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers
lay every thing open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas
have you been admitting?'
They had reached the end of the gallery; and with tears of
shame she ran off to her own room.
<C  X>
THE visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely
awakened. Henry's address, short as it had been, had more
thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late
fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most
grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It
was not only with herself that she was sunk--but with Henry.
Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed
to him, and he must despise her for ever. The liberty which her
imagination had dared to take with the character of his father,
could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and
her fears, could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself
more than she could express. He had--she thought he had,
once or twice before this fatal morning, shewn something like
affection for her.--But now--in short, she made herself as
miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when
the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely
give an intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry, if she was well.
The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and
the only difference in his behaviour to her, was that he paid
her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never
wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was aware of it.
The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing
politeness ; and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest
tranquillity. She did not learn either to forget or defend the
past; but she learned to hope that it would never transpire
farther, and that it might not cost her Henry's entire regard.
Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had with
such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be
clearer, than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created
delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance
from an imagination resolved on alarm, and every thing forced
to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she entered
the Abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She remembered
with what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge
of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created,
the mischief settled long before her quitting Bath, and it
seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence of that
sort of reading which she had there indulged.
Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming
even as were the works of all her imitators, it was not in
them perhaps that human nature, at least in the midland
counties of England, was to be looked for. Of the Alps and
Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices, they might
give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the
South of France, might be as fruitful in horrors as they were
there represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own
country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded
the northern and western extremities. But in the central part
of England there was surely some security for the existence
even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land, and the
manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants were
not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured,
like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps
and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There,
such as were not as spotless as an angel, might have the dispositions
of a fiend. But in England it was not so; among the
English, she believed, in their hearts and habits, there was
a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this
conviction, she would not be surprized if even in Henry and
Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter
appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge
some actual specks in the character of their father, who,
though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which
she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe, upon
serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.
Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution
formed, of always judging and acting in future with the
greatest good sense, she had nothing to do but to forgive herself
and be happier than ever; and the lenient hand of time
did much for her by insensible gradations in the course of
another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness of
conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had
passed, was of the greatest assistance to her ; and sooner than
she could have supposed it possible in the beginning of her
distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable, and
capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by any
thing he said. There were still some subjects indeed, under
which she believed they must always tremble;--the mention
of a chest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did not love the
sight of japan in any shape: but even she could allow, that an
occasional memento of past folly, however painful, might not
be without use.
The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the
alarms of romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew
every day greater. She was quite impatient to know how the
Bath world went on, and how the Rooms were attended; and
especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella's having
matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had left her
intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James.
Her only dependence for information of any kind was on
Isabella. James had protested against writing to her till his
return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of
a letter till she had got back to Fullerton.--But Isabella had
promised and promised again ; and when she promised a thing,
she was so scrupulous in performing it ! this made it so particularly
strange !
For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over
the repetition of a disappointment, which each morning
became more severe : but, on the tenth, when she entered the
breakfast-room, her first object was a letter, held out by
Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartily as if he
had written it himself. "'Tis only from James, however,' as
she looked at the direction. She opened it ; it was from Oxford ;
and to this purpose:--
"Dear Catherine,
Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing,
I think it my duty to tell you, that every thing is at an end between
Miss Thorpe and me.--I left her and Bath yesterday,
never to see either again. I shall not enter into particulars, they
would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough from
another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I hope will
acquit your brother of every thing but the folly of too easily
thinking his affection returned. Thank God ! I am undeceived
in time! But it is a heavy blow!--After my father's consent
had been so kindly given--but no more of this. She has made
me miserable for ever ! Let me soon hear from you, dear Catherine;
you are my only friend;your love I do build upon. I wish
your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney
makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably
circumstanced.--Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of
him; his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to
him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all- till
the very last, if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as
much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am
ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but ifever man had
reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I cannot understand
even now what she would be at, for there could be no
need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We
parted at last by mutual consent--happy for me had we never
met ! I can never expect to know such another woman ! Dearest
Catherine, beware how you give your heart.
Believe me,' &c.
Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden
change of countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing
wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news; and
Henry, earnestly watching her through the whole letter, saw
plainly that it ended no better than it began. He was prevented,
however, from even looking his surprize by his father's
entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine
could hardly eat any thing. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran
down her cheeks as she sat. The letter was one moment in her
hand, then in her lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked
as if she knew not what she did. The General, between his
cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing
her; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As
soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own
room; but the house-maids were busy in it, and she was
obliged to come down again. She turned into the drawingroom
for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise
retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation
about her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon,
but was, with gentle violence, forced to return ; and the others
withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish
of being of use or comfort to her.
After half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflection,
Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends ; but whether
she should make her distress known to them was another consideration.
Perhaps, if particularly questioned, she might just
give an idea--just distantly hint at it--but not more. To expose
a friend, such a friend as Isabella had been to her--and then
their own brother so closely concerned in it!--She believed
she must wave the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor
were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she
entered it, looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place
at the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad
news from Fullerton, I hope ? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your
brothers and sisters--I hope they are none of them ill?'
"No, I thank you,' (sighing as she spoke,) "they are all very
well. My letter was from my brother at Oxford.'
Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking
through her tears, she added, 'I do not think I shall ever
wish for a letter again !'
"I am sorry,' said Henry, closing the book he had just
opened; "if I had suspected the letter of containing any thing
unwelcome, I should have given it with very different
feelings.'
"It contained something worse than any body could suppose ! --
Poor James is so unhappy ! --You will soon know why.'
"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,' replied
Henry, warmly, "must be a comfort to him under any distress.'
"I have one favour to beg,' said Catherine, shortly afterwards,
in an agitated manner, "that, if your brother should be
coming here, you will give me notice ofit, that I may go
away.'
"Our brother ! -- Frederick !'
"Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon,
but something has happened that would make it very dreadful
for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilneyi'
Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing
astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and
something, in which Miss Thorpe's name was included,
passed his lips.
"How quick you are !' cried Catherine: "you have guessed it,
I declare!--And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you
little thought of its ending so. Isabella--no wonder now
I have not heard from her--Isabella has deserted my brother,
and is to marry your's! Could you have believed there had
been such inconstancy and fickleness, and every thing that is
bad in the world?'
"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed.
I hope he has not had any material share in bringing
on Mr. Morland"s disappointment. His marrying Miss
Thorpe is not probable. I think you must be deceived so far.
I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that any one you love
should be unhappy; but my surprize would be greater at
Frederick"s marrying her, than at any other part of the story.'
"It is very true, however ; you shall read James's letter yourself.--
Stay--there is one part--' recollecting with a
blush the last line.
"Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages
which concern my brother?'
"No, read it yourself," cried Catherine, whose second
thoughts were clearer. "I do not know what I was thinking of,'
(blushing again that she had blushed before,)--"James only
means to give me good advice.'
He gladly received the letter; and, having read it through,
with close attention, returned it saying, "Well, if it is to be so,
I can only say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the
first man who has chosen a wife with less sense than his family
expected. I do not envy his situation, either as a lover or
a son.'
Miss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read the letter
likewise; and, having expressed also her concern and surprize,
began to inquire into Miss Thorpe's connexions and
fortune.
"Her mother is a very good sort of woman,' was Catherine's
answer.
"What was her father ?"
"A lawyer, I believe.--They live at Putney.'
"Are they a wealthy family ?'
"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at
all: but that will not signify in your family.--Your father is so
very liberal! He told me the other day, that he only valued
money as it allowed him to promote the happiness of his
children.' The brother and sister looked at each other. "But,'
said Eleanor, after a short pause, "would it be to promote his
happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl?--She must be
an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother
so.--And how strange an infatuation on Frederick's side,
A girl who, before his eyes, is violating an engagement
voluntarily entered into with another man! Is not it inconceivable,
Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart
so proudly! who found no woman good enough to be loved !'
"That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest
presumption against him. When I think of his past declarations,
I give him up.--Moreover, I have too good an opinion
of Miss Thorpe's prudence, to suppose that she would part
with one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over
with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased man--defunct in
understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and
such a sister-in-law as you must delight in !--Open, candid,
artless, guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming
no pretensions, and knowing no disguise.'
"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,' said
Eleanor, with a smile.
"But perhaps,' observed Catherine, "though she has behaved
so ill by our family, she may behave better by your's. Now
she has really got the man she likes, she may be constant.'
"Indeed I am afraid she will,' replied Henry; "I am afraid
she will be very constant, unless a baronet should come in her
way; that is Frederick's only chance.--I will get the Bath
paper and look over the arrivals.'
"You think it is all for ambition then?--And, upon my
word, there are some things that seem very like it. I cannot
forget, that, when she first knew what my father would do
for them, she seemed quite disappointed that it was not more.
I never was so deceived in any one's character in my life
before.'
"Among all the great variety that you have known and
studied.'
"My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but,
as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.'
"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present;
but we must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue
your's. You feel, I suppose, that, in losing Isabella, you lose
half yourself: you feel a void in your heart which nothing else
can occupy. Society is becoming irksome; and as for the amusements
in which you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of
them without her is abhorrent. You would not, for instance,
now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no longer
any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve; on whose
regard you can place dependence; or whose counsel, in any
difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?'
"No ' said Catherine, after a few moments" reflection, "I do
not--ought I ? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved,
that I cannot still love her, that I am never to hear from her,
perhaps never to see her again, I do not feel so very, very much
afflicted as one would have thought."
"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of
human nature.--Such feelings ought to be investigated, that
they may know themselves.'
Catherine bv some chance or other, found her spirits so
very much relieved by this conversation, that she could not
regret her being led on, though so unaccountably, to mention
the circumstance which had produced it.
<C  XI>
FROM this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the
three young people ; and Catherine found, with some surprize,
that her two young friends were perfectly agreed in considering
Isabella's want of consequence and fortune as likely to
throw great difficulties in the way of her marrying their
brother. Their persuasion that the General would, upon this
ground alone, independent of the objection that might be
raised against her character, oppose the connexion, turned her
feelings moreover with some alarm towards herself. She was
as insignificant, and perhaps as portionless as Isabella; and if
the heir of the Tilney property had not grandeur and wealth
enough in himself, at what point ofinterest were the demands
of his younger brother to rest? The very painful reflections
to which this thought led, could only be dispersed by a dependence
on the effect of that particular partiality, which, as she
was given to understand by his words as well as his actions,
she had from the first been so fortunate as to excite in the
General; and by a recollection of some most generous and
disinterested sentiments on the subject of money, which she
had more than once heard him utter, and which tempted her
to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood by
his children.
They were so fully convinced, however, that their brother
would not have the courage to apply in person for his father's
consent, and so repeatedly assured her that he had never in his
life been less likely to come to Northanger than at the present
time, that she suffered her mind to be at ease as to the necessity
of any sudden removal ofher own. But as it was not to be
supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his a lication,
would give his father any just idea of Isabella's conduct,
it occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should lay
the whole business before him as it really was, enabling the
General by that means to form a cool and impartial opinion,
and prepare his objections on a fairer ground than inequality
of situations. She proposed it to him accordingly; but he did
not catch at the measure so eagerly as she had expected. "No,'
said he, "my father's hands need not be strengthened, and
Frederick's confession of folly need not be forestalled. He
must tell his own story.'
"But he will tell only half of it.'
"A quarter would be enough.'
A day or two passed away and brought no tidings ofCaptain
Tilney. His brother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes
it appeared to them as ifhis silence would be the natural
result of the suspected engagement, and at others that it was
wholly incompatible with it. The General, meanwhile, though
offended every morning by Frederick's remissness in writing,
was free from any real anxiety about him; and had no more
pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland's time
at Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness
on this head, feared the sameness of every day's
society and employments would disgust her with the place,
wished the Lady Frasers had been in the country, talked every
now and then of having a large party to dinner, and once or
twice began even to calculate the number of young dancing
people in the neighbourhood. But then it was such a dead time
of year, no wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not
in the country. And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry
one morning, that when he next went to Woodston, they
would take him by surprize there some day or other, and eat
their mutton with him. Henry was greatly honoured and very
happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the scheme.
"And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this
pleasure ?--I must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the
parish meeting," and shall probably be obliged to stay two or
three days.'
"Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days.
There is no need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out
of your way. Whatever you may happen to have in the house
will be enough. I think I can answer for the young ladies
making allowance for a bachelor's table. Let me see; Monday
will be a busy day with you, we will not come on Monday;
and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor
from Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards
I cannot in decency fail attending the club. I really
could not face my acquaintance if I staid away now; for, as
I am known to be in the country, it would be taken exceedingly
amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland, never to
give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of
time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very
worthy men. They have half a buck from Northanger twice
a year; and I dine with them whenever I can. "Tuesday, therefore,
we may say is out of the question. But on Wednesday,
I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be with you
early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and
three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall
be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on
Wednesday, you may look for us.'
A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine
than this little excursion, so strong was her desire to be
acquainted with Woodston ; and her heart was still bounding
with joy, when Henry, about an hour afterwards, came booted
and great coated into the room where she and Eleanor were
sitting, and said, "I am come, young ladies, in a very moralizing
strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world are always
to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great disadvantage,
giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft
on the future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at
this present hour. Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of
seeing you at Woodston on Wednesday, which bad weather,
or twenty other causes may prevent, I must go away directly,
two days before I intended it.'
"Go away !' said Catherine, with a very long face; "and why ?'
"Why !--How can you ask the question ?--Because no time
is to be lost in frightening my old housekeeper out ofher wits,
--because I must go and prepare a dinner for you to be sure.'
"Oh! not seriously!'
"Aye, and sadly too--for I had much rather stay.'
"But how can you think of such a thing, after what the
General said ? when he so particularly desired you not to give
yourself any trouble, because any thing would do.'
Henry only smiled. "I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon
your sister's account and mine. You must know it to be soand
the General made such a point of your providing nothing
extraordinary:--besides, if he had not said half so much as he
did, he has always such an excellent dinner at home, that
sitting down to a middling one for one day could not signify.'
"I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own.
Good bye. As to-morrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not
return.'
He went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation
to Catherine to doubt her own judgment than Henry's,
she was very soon obliged to give him credit for being right,
however disagreeable to her his going. But the inexplicability
of the General's conduct dwelt much on her thoughts. That he
was very particular in his eating, she had, by her own unassisted
observation, already discovered; but why he should
say one thing so positively, and mean another all the while,
was most unaccountable ! How were people, at that rate, to be
understood ? Who but Henry could have been aware of
his father was at?
From Saturday to Wednesday however, they were now to
be without Henry. This was the sad finale of every reflection :
--and Captain Tilney"s letter would certainly come in his
absence; and Wednesday she was very sure would be wet.
The past, present, and future, were all equally in gloom. Her
brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great; and
Eleanor's spirits always affected by Henry's absence! What
was there to interest or amuse her ? She was tired ofthe woods
and the shrubberies--always so smooth and so dry; and the
Abbey in itselfwas no more to her now than any other house,
The painful remembrance of the folly it had helped to nourish
and perfect, was the only emotion which could spring from
a consideration of the building. What a revolution in her ideas !
she, who had so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was
nothing so charming to her imagination as the unpretending
comfort of a well-connected Parsonage,' something like
Fullerton, but better : Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston
probably had none.--If Wednesday should ever come !
It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked
for. It came--it was fine--and Catherine trod on air. By ten
o'clock, the chaise-and-four conveyed the trio from the
Abbey; and, after an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles,
they entered Woodston, a large and populous village, in a
situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say how
pretty she thought it, as the General seemed to think an
apology necessary for the flatness of the country, and the size
of the village; but in her heart she preferred it to any place she
had ever been at, and looked with great admiration at every
neat house above the rank of a cottage, and at all the little
chandler's shops which they passed. At the further end of the
village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest of it, stood the
Parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house, with its semicircular
sweep and green gates; and, as they drove up to the
door, Henry, with the friends ofhis solitude, a large Newfoundland
puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and
make much of them.
Catherine's mind was too full, as she entered the house, for
her either to observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on
by the General for her opinion of it, she had very little idea
of the room in which she was sitting. Upon looking round it
then, she perceived in a moment that it was the most comfortable
room in the world; but she was too guarded to say so, and
the coldness of her praise disappointed him
"We are not calling it a good house,' said he.--"We are not
comparing it with Fullerton and Northanger--We are considering
it as a mere Parsonage, small and confined, we allow,
but decent perhaps, and habitable ; and altogether not inferior
to the generality;--or, in other words, I believe there are few
country parsonages in England half so good. It may admit of
improvement, however. Far be it from me to say otherwise;
and any thing in reason--a bow thrown out, perhaps--
though, between ourselves, if there is one thing more than
another my aversion, it is a patched-on bow.'
Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand
or be pained by it; and other subjects being studiously
brought forward and supported by Henry, at the same time
that a tray full of refreshments was introduced by his servant
the General was shortly restored to his complacency, and
Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.
The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned
size, and handsomely fitted up as a dining parlour;
and on their quitting it to walk round the grounds, she was
shewn, first into a smaller apartment, belonging peculiarly
to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy on the
occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawingroom,
with the appearance of which, though unfurnished,
Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the General.
It was a prettily-shaped room, the windows reaching to the
ground, and the view from them pleasant, though only over
green meadows; and she expressed her admiration at the
moment with all the honest simplicity with which she felt it.
"Oh ! why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney ? What a pity
not to have it fitted up ! It is the prettiest room I ever saw;--it
is the prettiest room in the world !'
"I trust," said the General with a most satisfied smile,"that
it will very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady's
taste !"
"Well, if it was my house, I should never sit any where else,
Oh! what a sweet little cottage there is among the trees--
apple trees too! It is the prettiest cottage !'--
"You like it--you approve it as an object;--it is enough.
Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken to about it. The
cottage remains.'
Such a compliment recalled all Catherine's consciousness,
and silenced her directly; and, though pointedly applied to
by the General for her choice of the prevailing colour of the
paper and hangings, nothing like an opinion on the subject
could be drawn from her. The influence of fresh objects and
fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating these
embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental
part of the premises, consisting of a walk round two
sides of a meadow, on which Henry's genius had begun to
act about half a year ago, she was sufficiently recovered to
think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she had ever been
in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher than the
green bench in the corner.
A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the
village, with a visit to the stables to examine some improvements,
and a charming game of play with a litter of puppies
just able to roll about, brought them to four o'clock, when
Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At four they were
to dine, and at six to set offon their return. Never had any day
passed so quickly !
She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner
did not seem to create the smallest astonishment in the
General; nay, that he was even looking at the side-table for
cold meat which was not there. His son and daughter's
observations were of a different kind. They had seldom seen
him eat so heartily at any table but his own; and never before
known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter's
being oiled.
At six o'clock, the General having taken his coffee, the
carriage again received them; and so gratifying had been the
tenor of his conduct throughout the whole visit, so well
assured was her mind on the subject of his expectations, that,
could she have felt equally confident of the wishes of his son,
Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little anxiety as
to the How or the When she might return to it.
<C  XII>
THE next morning brought the following very unexpected
letter from Isabella:--
Bath, April --
My dearest Catherine,
I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight,
and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering
them sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but
in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had
my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day
since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some
silly trifler or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my
own home. Thank God! we leave this vile place to-morrow.
Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it--the dust
is beyond any thing; and every body one cares for is gone.
I believe ifl could see you I should not mind the rest, for you
are dearer to me than any body can conceive. I am quite
uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him
since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding.
Your kind offices will set all right:--he is the only
man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince
him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and the hats
the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your
time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of me. I will
not say all that I could of the family you are with, because
I would not be ungenerous or set you against those you
esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and
young men never know their minds two days together. I
rejoice to say, that the young man whom, of all others, I particularlv
abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description,
I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember,
was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before you
went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my
shadow. Many girls might have been taken in, for never were
such attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too well. He went
away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust I shall never be
plagued with him again. He is the greatest coxcomb I ever
saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was
always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but
took no notice ofhim. The last time we met was in Bath-street,
and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak ta
me;--I would not even look at him. He went into the Pumproom
afterwards; but I would not have followed him for all
the world. Such a contrast between him and your brother !--
pray send me some news of the latter--I am quite unhappy
about him, he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away,
with a cold, or something that affected his spirits. I would
write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and, as
I hinted above, am afraid he took something in my conduct
amiss. Pray explain every thing to his satisfaction; or, if he
still harbours any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a call
at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have not
been to the Rooms this age, nor to the Play, except going in
last night with the Hodges's, for a frolic, at half-price: they
teased me into it; and I was determined they should not say
I shut myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to
sit by the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprized
to see me out. I knew their spite:--at one tiine they
could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship; but
I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have
a pretty good spirit ofmy own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put
on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the
Concert, but made wretched work of it--it happened to
become my odd face I believe, at least Tilney told me so at
the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last
man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple
now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter--it is your
dear brother's favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest,
sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me,
Who ever am &c.
Such a strain ofshallow artifice could not impose even upon
Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood,
struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella,
and ashamed of having ever loved her. Her professions of
attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty,
and her demands impudent. "Write to James on her behalf!--
No, James should never hear Isabella's name mentioned by
her again.'
On Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known to him
and Eleanor their brother's safety, congratulating them with
sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages
of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished
it,--"So much for Isabella,' she cried, 'and for all our intimacy !
She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so ;
but perhaps this has served to make her character better known
to me than mine is to her, I see what she has been about. She
is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not
believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me,
and I wish I had never known her.'
"It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry.
"There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see
that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not
succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has
been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions
as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off
himself?'
"I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as I
believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss
Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger
head, they have not yet injured himself. If the effect of his
behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not
seek after the cause.'
 "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her ?'
"I am persuaded that he never did.'
"And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?'
Henry bowed his assent.
"Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though
it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it
happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think
Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her
very much in love with him?'
"But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to
lose,--consequently to have been a very different creature;
and, in that case, she would have met with very different
treatment.'
"It is very right that you should stand by your brother,'
"And if you would stand by your"s, you would not be much
distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your
mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity,
and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family
partiality, or a desire of revenge.'
Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness.
Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry
made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering
Isabella's letter; and tried to think no more of it.
<C  XIII>
SOON after this, the General found himself obliged to go to
London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting
that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of
Miss Morland's company, and anxiously recommending the
study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their
chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the
first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes
again. The happiness with which their time now passed,
every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every
meal a scene of ease and good-humour, walking where they
liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures and fatigues
at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the
restraint which the General's presence had imposed, and most
thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and
such delights made her love the place and the people more and
more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon
becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of
not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each
moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was
now in the fourth week of her visit; before the General came
home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might
seem an intrusion if she staid much longer. This was a painful
consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid
of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak
to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away, and be guided
in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might
be taken.
Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it
difficult to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the
first opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of
Eleanor's being in the middle of a speech about something
very different, to start forth her obligation of going away very
soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned.
She had "hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much
longer time--had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) tosuppose
that a much longer visit had been promised--and
could not but think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were
aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her there, they
would be too generous to hasten her return.'--Catherine
explained.--"Oh! as to that, papa and mamma were in no
hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be
satisfied.'
"Then why might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave
them ?'
"Oh ! because she had been there so long.'
"Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther,
If you think it long--'
"Oh! no, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could
stay with you as long again.'--And it was directly settled that,
till she had, her leaving them was not even to be thought of,
In having this cause of uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the
force of the other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the
earnestness of Eleanor's manner in pressing her to stay, and
Henry's gratified look on being told that her stay was determined,
were such sweet proofs of her importance with them,
as left her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can
never do comfortably without. She did--almost always--
believe that Henry loved her, and quite always that his father
and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them; and
believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive
irritations.
Henry was not able to obey his father's injunction of remaining
wholly at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during
his absence in London; the engagements of his curate at
Woodston obliging him to leave them on Saturday for a couple
of nights. His loss was not now what it had been while the
General was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin
their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and
improving in intimacy, found themselves so well-sufficient
for the time to themselves, that it was eleven o'clock, rather
a late hour at the Abbey, before they quitted the supper-room
on the day of Henry's departure. They had just reached the
head of the stairs, when it seemed, as far as the thickness of
the walls would allow them to judge, that a carriage was
driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the
idea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation
of surprize had passed away, in a "Good Heaven!
what can be the matter?' it was quickly decided by Eleanor
to be her eldest brother, whose arrival was often as sudden,
if not quite so unseasonable and accordingly she hurried
down to welcome him.
Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind
as well as she could, to a further acquaintance with Captain
Tilney, and comforting herself under the unpleasant impression
his conduct had given her, and the persuasion of his being
by far too fine a gentleman to approve of her, that at least they
should not meet under such circumstances as would make their
meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never speak
of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be
ashamed of the part he had acted, there could be no danger of
it; and as long as all mention ofBath scenes were avoided, she
thought she could behave to him very civilly'- In such considerations
time passed away, and it was certainly in his favour
that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so much
to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival and
Eleanor did not come up.
At that moment Catherine thought she heard her ste in
the gallery, and listened for its continuance ; but all was silent.
Scarcely, however, had she convicted her fancy of error, when
the noise of something moving close to her door made her
start; it seemed as if some one was touching the very doorway
--and in another moment a slight motion of the lock proved
that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea
of any one"s approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to
be again overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled
by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and
opened the door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there.
Catherine's spirits however were tranquillized but for an
instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and her manner
greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it
seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak
when there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on
Captain Tilney's account, could only express her concern by
silent attention; obliged her to be seated, rubbed her temples
with lavender-water, and hung over her with affectionate
solicitude. "My dear Catherine, you must not--you must not
indeeed-' were eleanor's first connected words. "I am quite
well. This kindness distracts me--I cannot bear it--I come
to you on such an errand !'
"Errand !--to me !'
"How shall I tell you !--Oh ! how shall I tell you !'
A new idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and turning
as pale as her friend, she exclaimed, "'Tis a messenger from
Woodston ! '
"You are mistaken, indeed,' returned Eleanor, looking at
her most compassionately--"it is no one from Woodston. It
is my father himself.' Her voice faltered, and her eyes were
turned to the ground as she mentioned his name. His unlookedfor
return was enough in itself to make Catherine's heart sink,
and for a few moments she hardly supposed there were any
thing worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor endeavouring
to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with
eyes still cast down, soon went on. "You are too good, I am
sure, to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to
perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After
what has so lately passed, so lately been settled between us--
how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!--as to your continuing
here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can
I tell you that your kindness is not to be accepted--and that
the happiness your company has hitherto given us is to be
repaid by--but I must not trust myself with words. My
dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has recollected an
engagement that takes our whole family away on Monday.
We are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a
fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible.
I cannot attempt either.'
"My dear Eleanor,' cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings
as well as she could, "do not be so distressed. A second engagement
must give way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to
part--so soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not offended,
indeed I am not. I can finish my visit here you know at any
time ; or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return
from this lord's, come to Fullerton ?'
"It will not be in my power, Catherine.'
"Come when you can, then.'--
Eleanor made no answer ; and Catherine's thoughts recurring
to something more directly interesting, she added, thinking
aloud, "Monday--so soon as Monday;--and you all go.
Well, I am certain of--I shall be able to take leave however.
I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do not be distressed,
Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father and
mother's having no notice of it is of very little consequence.
The General will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the
way--and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only
nine miles from home.'
"Ah, Catherine! were it settled so, it would be somewhat
less intolerable, though in such common attentions you would
have received but half what you ought. But--how can I tell
you ?--To-morrow morning is fixed for your leaving us, and
not even the hour is left to your choice; the very carriage is
ordered, and will be here at seven o'clock, and no servant will
be offered you.'
Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. "I could
hardly believe my senses, when I heard it;--and no displeasure,
no resentment that you can feel at this moment,
however justly great, can be more than I myself--but
I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! that I could suggest any
thing in extenuation ! Good God ! what will your father and
mother say! After courting you from the protection of real
friends to this--almost double distance from your home, to
have you driven out of the house, without the considerations
even of decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the
bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult ;
yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have been long
enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress
of it, that my real power is nothing.'
"Have I offended the General?' said Catherine in a faltering
voice.
"Alas ! for my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that
I answer for is, that you can have given him no just cause of
offence. He certainly is greatly, very greatly decomposed;
I have seldom seen him more so. His temper is not happy, and
something has now occurred to ruffle it in an uncommon
degree; some disappointment, some vexation, which just at
this moment seems important; but which I can hardly suppose
you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?'
It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it
was only for Eleanor's sake that she attempted it. "I am sure,'
said she, "I am very sorry if I have offended him. It was the
last thing I would willingly have done. But do not be unhappy,
Eleanor. An engagement you know must be kept. I am only
sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written
home. But it is of very little consequence.'
"I hope, I earnestly hope that to your real safety it will be
of none; but to every thing else it is of the greatest consequence ;
to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family, to
the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in Bath, you
might go to them with comparative ease; a few hours would
take you there; but a journey ofseventy miles, to be taken post
by you, at your age, alone, unattended !'
"Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And
if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes
no difference. I can be ready by seven. Let me be called in
time.' Eleanor saw that she wished to be alone; and believing
it better for each that they should avoid any further conversation,
now left her with "I shall see you in the morning.'
Catherine's swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor's
presence friendship and pride had equally restrained her
tears, but no sooner was she gone than they burst forth in
torrents. Turned from the house, and in such a way !--Without
any reason that could justify, any apology that could atone
for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it.
Henry at a distance--not able even to bid him farewell. Every
hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and
who could say how long?--Who could say when they might
meet again?--And all this by such a man as General Tilney,
so polite, so well-bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of
her! It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and
grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would end,
were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner
in which it was done so grossly uncivil; hurrying her
away without any reference to her own convenience, or allowing
her even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode
of her travelling ; of two days, the earliest fixed on, and of that
almost the earliest hour, as if resolved to have her gone before
he was stirring in the morning, that he might not be obliged
even to see her. What could all this mean but an intentional
affront? By some means or other she must have had the misfortune
to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from
so painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible
that any injury' or any misfortune could provoke such ill-will
against a person not connected, or, at least, not supposed to
be connected with it.
Heavily past the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the
name of sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which
her disturbed imagination had tormented her on her first
arrival, was again the scene of agitated spirits aiid unquiet
slumbers. Yet how different now the source of her inquietude
from what it had been then--how mournfully superior in
reality and substance ! Her anxiety had foundation in fact, her
fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation
of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her
situation, the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the
building were felt and considered without the smallest
emotion; and though the wind was high, and often produced
strange and sudden noises throughout the house, she heard
it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or
terror.
Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show
attention or give assistance where it was possible; but very
little remained to be done. Catherine had not loitered; she
was almost dressed, and her packing almost finished. The
possibility of some conciliatory message from the General
occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as
that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? and
she only wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an
apology might properly be received by her. But the knowledge
would have been useless here, it was not called for,
neither clemency nor dignity was put to the trial--Eleanor
brought no message. Very little passed between them on meeting;
each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and
trivial were the sentences exchanged while they remained up
stairs, Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress, and
Eleanor with more good-will than experience intent upon filling
the trunk. When every thing was done they left the room,
Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend to
throw a parting glance on every well-known cherished object,
and went down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was
prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save herself from the pain
of being urged, as to make her friend comfortable ; but she had
no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The
contrast between this and her last breakfast in that room, gave
her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for every thing
before her. It was not four-and-twenty hours ago since they
had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how
different ! With what cheerful ease, what happy, though false
security, had she then looked around her, enjoying every thing
present, and fearing little in future, beyond Henry's going to
Woodston for a day ! Happy, happy breakfast ! for Henry had
been there, Henry had sat by her and helped her. These
reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any address
from her companion, who sat as deep in thought as hersef;
and the appearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle
and recall them to the present moment. Catherine's colour
rose at the sight ofit; and the indignity with which she was
treated striking at that instant on her mind with peculiar force,
made her for a short time sensible only of resentment. Eleanor
seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.
"You must write to me, Catherine,' she cried, "you must let
me hear from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be
safe at home, I shall not have an hour's comfort. For one letter,
at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction
of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have
found your family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence
as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to
me at Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it, under cover to
Alice.'
"No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from
me, I am sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt
of my getting home safe.'
Eleanor only replied, "I cannot wonder at your feelings.
I will not importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of
heart when I am at a distance from you.' Bu this, with the
look of sorrow accompanying it, was enough to melt Catherine's
pride in a moment, and she instantly said, "Oh, Eleanor,
I will write to you indeed.'
There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was
anxious to settle, though somewhat embarrassed in speaking
of. It had occurred to her, that after so long an absence
from home, Catherine might not be provided with money
enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting
it to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation
it proved to be exactly the case. Catherine had never
thought on the subject till that moment; but, upon examining
her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her
friend, she might have been turned from the house without
even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she
must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both,
scarcely another word was said by either during the time of
their remaining together. Short, however, was that time. The
carriage was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine,
instantly rising, a long and affectionate embrace supplied the
place of language in bidding each other adieu; and, as they
entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some
mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken
by either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips
just made it intelligible that she left "her kind remembrance
for her absent friend.' But with this approach to
his name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings;
and, hiding her face as well as she could with her handkerchief,
she darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise, and
in a moment was driven from the door.
<C  XIV>
CATHERINE was too wretched to be fearful. The journey
in itself had no terrors for her; and she began it without either
dreading its length, or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back
in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she
was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the Abbey
before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground
within the park was almost closed from her view before she
was capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the
road she now travelled was the same which only ten days ago
she had so happily passed along in going to and from
Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was
rendered more severe by the review of objects on which she
had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile,
as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings,
and when within the distance of five, she passed the turning
which led to it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious,
her grief and agitation were excessive.
The day which she had spent at that place had been one of
the happiest ofher life. It was there, it was on that day that the
General had made use of such expressions with regard to
Henry and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her
the most positive conviction of his actually wishing their
marriage. Yes, only ten day's ago had he elated her by his
pointed regard--had he even confused her by his too significant
reference ! And now--what had she done, or what had
she omitted to do, to merit such a change?
The only offence against him of which she could accuse
herself, had been such as was scarcely possible to reach his
knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were privy to the
shocking suspicions which she had so idly entertained; and
equally safe did she believe her secret with each. Designedly,
at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by any
strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence
of what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless
fancies and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at
any degree of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed
him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even turning
her from his house. But a justification so full of torture to herself,
she trusted would not be in his power.
Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was
not, however, the one on which she dwelt most. There was
a thought yet nearer, a more prevailing, more impetuous concern.
How Henry would think, and feel, and look, when he
returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her being
gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every
other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing ;
it sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence
and at others was answered by the sweetest confidence in his
regret and resentment. To the General, of course, he would
not dare to speak; but to Eleanor--what might he not say to
Eleanor about her ?
In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on
any one article of which her mind was incapable of more than
momentary repose, the hours passed away, and her journey
advanced much faster than she looked for. The pressing
anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing any
thing before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of
Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching her
progress; and though no object on the road could engage
a moment's attention, she found no stage of it tedious. From
this, she was preserved too by another cause, by feeling no
eagerness for her journey's conclusion; for to return in such
a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure
of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence
such as her's--an eleven wceks absence. What had she to say
that would not humble herself and pain her family; that
would not increase her own grief by the confession of it,
extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent
with the guilty in undistinguishing ill-will? She could
never do justice to Henry and Eleanor's merit; she felt it too
strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken against
them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their
father's account, it would cut her to the heart.
With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the
first view of that well-known spire which would announce her
within twenty miles of home. Salisbury she had known to be
her point on leaving Northanger; but after the first stage she
had been indebted to the post-masters for the names of the
places which were then to conduct her to it; so great had been
her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however,
to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners and
liberal pay, procured her all the attention that a traveller like
herself could require ; and stopping only to change horses, she
travelled on for about eleven hours without accident or alarm,
and between six and seven o'clock in the evening found herself
entering Fullerton.
A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native
village, in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the
dignity of a countess, with a long train of noble relations in
their several phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling
chaise-and-four, behind her, is an event on which the pen of
the contriver may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every
conclusion, and the author must share in the glory she so
liberally bestows.--But my affair is widely different; I bring
back my heroine to her home in solitude and disgrace; and no
sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness. A heroine
in a hack post-chaise, is such a blow upon sentiment, as no
attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore
shall her post-boy drive through the village, amid the
gaze of Sunday groups, and speedy shall be her descent
from it.
But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine's mind,
as she thus advanced towards the Parsonage and whatever
the humiliation of her biographer in relating it, she was
preparing enjoyment of no every-day nature for those to
whom she went ; first, in the appearance of her carriage--and
secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a rare
sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the
window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure
to brighten every eye and occupy every fancy--a pleasure
quite unlooked for by all but the two youngest children, a boy
and girl of six and four years old, who expected a brother or
sister in every carriage. Happy the glance that first distinguished
Catherine ! --Happy the voice that proclaimed the
discovery!--But whether such happiness were the lawful
property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood.

Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet all
assembled at the door, to welcome her with affectionate eagerness,
was a sight to awaken the best feelings of Catherine's
heart; and in the embrace of each, as she stepped from the
carriage, she found herself soothed beyond any thing that she
had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was
even happy! In the joyfulness of family love every thing for
a short time was subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her,
leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were
all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had
hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and
jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so
direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.
Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin
what might perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed by
the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation; but scarcely,
within that time, could they at all discover the cause, or collect
the particulars ofher sudden return. They were far from being
an irritable race ; far from any quickness in catching, or bitterness
in resenting affronts:--but here, when the whole was
unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first
half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any
romantic alarm in the consideration of their daughter"s long
 and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel
that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to
her; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered;
and that, in forcing her on such a measure, General
Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feelingly--neither
as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, what could
have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so
suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into
actualill-will, was a matter which they were at least as far
from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress
them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless
conjecture, that, "it was a strange business, and that he must
be a very strange man,' grew enough for all their indignation
and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets
of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with
youthful ardour. --"My dear, you give yourself a great deal of
needless trouble,' said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it
is something not at all worth understanding.'
"I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected
this engagement,' said Sarah, "but why not do it
civilly?'
"I am sorry for the young people,' returned Mrs. Morland;
"they must have a sad time ofit; but as for any thing else,it is
no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort
does not depend upon General Tilney.' Catherine sighed.
"Well,' continued her philosophic mother, "I am glad I did
not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over
perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for
young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you
know, my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little shatterbrained
creature; but now you must have been forced to have
your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and
so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left any
thing behind you in any of the pockets.'
Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her
own amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and,
to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily
agreed to her mother's next counsel of going early to bed. Her
parents seeing nothing in her ill-looks and agitation but the
natural consequence of mortified feelings, and of the unusual
exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted from her without
any doubt of their being soon slept away; and though,
when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not
equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of
there being any deeper evil. They never once thought of her
heart, which, for the parents of a young lady of seventeen,
just returned from her first excursion from home, was odd
enough !
As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her
promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and
distance on her friend's disposition was already justified for
already' did Catherine reproach herself with having parted
from Eleanor coldly; with having never enough valued her
merits or kindness; and never enough commiserated her for
what she had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of
these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen; and
never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing
Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do
justice to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude
without servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and
honest without resentment--a letter which Eleanor might not
be pained by the perusal of--and, above all, which she might
not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an
undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance;
and, after long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief
was all that she could determine on with any confidence of
safety. The money therefore which Eleanor had advanced was
inclosed with little more than grateful thanks, and the
thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.
"This has been a strange acquaintance,' observed Mrs.
Morland, as the letter was finished; "soon made and soon
ended.--I am sorry it happens so, for Mrs. Allen thought
them very pretty kind of young people; and you were sadly
out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! poor James! Well, we
must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope
will be better worth keeping.'
Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, "No friend
can be better worth keeping than Eleanor.'
"If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or
other; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown
together again in the course of a few years; and then what
a pleasure it will be !'
Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation.
The hope of meeting again in the course of a few years could
only put into Catherine's head what might happen within that
time to make a meeting dreadful to her. She could never forget
Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she
did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in that case
to meet!--Her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her
acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her
comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed,
as another expedient for restoring her spirits, that they should
call on Mrs. Allen.
The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and,
as they walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she
felt on the score of James's disappointment. "We are sorry for
him,' said she; "but otherwise there is no harm done in the
match going off; for it could not be a desirable thing to have
him engaged to a girl whom we had not the smallest acquaintance
with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and now,
after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just
at present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last
for ever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life,
for the foolishness of his first choice.'
This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine
could listen to ; another sentence might have endangered
her complaisance, and made her reply less rational; for soon
were all her thinking powers swallowed up in the reflection
of her own change of feelings and spirits since last she had
trodden that well-known road. It was not three months ago
since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards
and forwards some ten times a-day, with an heart light,
gay, and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted
and unalloyed, and free from the apprehension of evil as from
the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all this;
and now, how altered a being did she return!
She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which
her unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection,
would naturally call forth; and great was their surprize, and
warm their displeasure, on hearing how she had been treated,
--though Mrs. Morland's account of it was no inflated representation,
no studied appeal to their passions. "Catherine took
us quite by surprize yesterday evening,' said she. "She
travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of
coming till Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some
odd fancy or other, all of a sudden grew tired of having her
there, and almost turned her out ofthe house. Very unfriendly,
certainly; and he must be a very odd man;--but we are so
glad to have her amongst us again ! And it is a great comfort to
find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift very
well for herself.'
Mr. Allen expressed himselfon the occasion with the reasonable
resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought
his expressions quite good enough to be immediately made
use of again by herself. His wonder, his conjectures, and his
explanations, became in succession her's, with the addition
of this single remark--"I really have not patience with the
General'--to fill up every accidental pause. And, "I really
have not patience with the General,' was uttered twice after
Mr. Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or
any material digression of thought. A more considerable
degree of wandering attended the third repetition ; and, after
completing the fourth, she immediately added, "Only think,
my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent in my best
Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one
can hardly see where it was. I must shew it you some day or
other. Bath is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you
I did not above half like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe's being
there was such a comfort to us, was not it? You know you and
I were quite forlorn at first.'
"Yes, but tfat did not last long,' said Catherine, her eyes
brightening at the recollection of what had first given spirit
to her existence there.
"Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we
wanted for nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk
gloves wear very well? I put them on new the first time of our
going to the Lower Rooms, you know, and I have worn them
a great deal since. Do you remember that evening ?'
"Do I! Oh! perfectly.'
"It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea
with us, and I always thought him a great addition, he is so
very agreeable. I have a notion you danced with him, but am
not quite sure. I remember I had my favourite gown on.'
Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other
subjects, Mrs. Allen again returned to--"I really have not
patience with the General ! Such an agreeable, worthy man as
he seemed to be! I do not suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever
saw a better-bred man in your life. His lodgings were taken
the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no wonder ;
Milsom-street you know.'--
As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured
to impress on her daughter's mind the happiness of having
such steady well-wishers as Mr. and Mrs. Allen, and the
very little consideration which the neglect or unkindness
of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with
her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection
of-her earliest friends. There was a great deal of good
sense in all this; but there are some situations of the
human mind in which good sense has very little power,
and Catherine's feelings contradicted almost every position
her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour or
these very slight acquaintance that all her present happiness
depended; and while Mrs. Morland was successfully
confirming her own opinions by the justness of her own
representations, Catherine was silently reflecting that now
Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have
heard of her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all
setting off for Hereford.
<C  XV>
CATHERINE's disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor
had her habits been ever very industrious ; but whatever might
hitherto have been her defects of that sort, her mother could
not but perceive them now to be greatly increased. She could
neither sit still, nor employ herself for ten minutes together,
walking round the garden and orchard again and again, as if
nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as it she
could even walk about the house rather than remain fixed
for any time in the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater
alteration. In her rambling and her idleness she might only be
a caricature of herself; but in her silence and sadness she was
the very reverse of all that she had been before.
For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without
a hint; but when a third night's rest had neither restored her
cheerfulness, improved her in useful activity, nor given her
a greater inclination for needle-work, she could no longer
refrain from the gentle reproof of, "My dear Catherine, I am
afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not know when
poor Richard's cravats would be done, if he had no friend but
you. Your head runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time
for every thing--a time for balls and plays, and a time for
work. You have had a long run of amusement, and now you
must try to be useful.'
Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected
voice, that "her head did not run upon Bath--much.'
"Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is
very simple of you; for ten to one whether you ever see him
again. You should never fret about trifles.' After a short
silence--"I hope my Catherine, you are not getting out of
humour with home because it is not so grand as Northanger.
That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed. Wherever
you are you should always be contented, but especially at
home, because there you must spend the most of your time.
I did not quite like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much
about the French-bread at Northanger.'
"I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same
to me what I eat.'
"There is a very clever Essay in one of the books up stairs
upon much such a subject, about young girls that have been
spoilt for home by great acquaintance--""The Mirror,''
I think. I will look it out for you some day or other, because
I am sure it will do you good.'
Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right,
applied to her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again,
without knowing it herself, into languor and listlessness,
moving herself in her chair, from the irritation of weariness,
much oftener than she moved her needle.--Mrs. Morland
watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing, in her
daughter's absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that
repining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her
want of cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in
question, anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a
malady. It was some time before she could find what she
looked for; and other family matters occurring to detain her,
a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she returned down stairs
with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her avocations
above having shut out all noise but what she created herself,
she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few
minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld
was a young man whom she had never seen before. With
a look of much respect, he immediately rose, and being introduced
to her by her conscious daughter as "Mr. Henry Tilney,'
with the embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologise
for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had
passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton,
and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland's
having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion.
He did not address himself to an uncandid judge or
a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his sister
in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always
kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his
appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected
benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to
her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children
were always welcome there, and intreating him to say not
another word of the past.
He was not ill inclined to obey this request, for, though his
heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it
was not just at that moment in his power to say any thing to
the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he
remained for some minutes most civilly answering all Mrs.
Morland's common remarks about the weather and roads.
Catherine meanwhile,--the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish
Catherine,--said not a word; but her glowing cheek and
brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured
visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and gladly
therefore did she lay aside the first volume of the Mirror for
a future hour.
Desirous of Mr. Morland's assistance, as well in giving
encouragement, as in finding conversation for her guest,
whose embarrassment on his father's account she earnestly
pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched one of the
children to summon him ; but Mr. Morland was from home--
and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of
an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes
unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first
time since her mother's entrance, asked her, with sudden
alacrity, ifMr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton ? and on
developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply,
the meaning, which one short syllable would have given,
immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to
them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have
the goodness to shew him the way. "You may see the house
from this window, sir,' was information on Sarah's side, which
produced-only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman,
and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland,
thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish
of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have
some explanation to give of his father's behaviour, which it
must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine,
would not on any account prevent her accompanying
him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not
entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation
on his father's account he had to give; but his first purpose
was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr.
Allen's grounds he had done it so well, that Catherine did not
think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of
his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which,
perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his
own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her,
though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her
character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his
affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in
other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had
been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new
circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully
derogatory of an heroine's dignity; but if it be as new in
common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be
all my own.
A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at
random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, wrapt in
the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely
opened her lips, dismissed them to the extasies of another
tete-a-tete ; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled
to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in
his present application. On his return from Woodston, two
days before, he had been met near the Abbey by his impatient
father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland's
departure, and ordered to think of her no more.
Such was the permission upon which he had now offered
her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors
of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but
rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her
from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging
her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded
to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his
father's conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a
triumphant delight. The General had had nothing to accuse
her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary,
unconscious object of a deception which his pride could
not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed
to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed
her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions
and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath,
solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his
daughter in law. On discovering his error, to turn her from
the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate
proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of
her family.
John Thorpe had first misled him. The General, perceiving
his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable
attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of
Thorpe, if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most
happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney's
importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative;
--and being at that time not only in daily expectation of
Morland's engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved
upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to
represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and
avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was,
or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always
required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with
any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The
expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first
over-rated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella, been
gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for
the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to
 think the amount of Mr. Morland's preferment, trebling his
private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the
children, he was able to represent the whole family to the
General in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however,
the peculiar object of the General's curiosity, and his own
speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the
ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give
her, would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen's estate. Her
intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being
handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore
as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton
naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the General had
proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its
authority. Thorpe's interest in the family, by his sister's
approaching connection with one of its members, and his
own views on another, (circumstances of which he boasted
with almost equal openness,) seemed sufficient vouchers for
his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the
Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland's being
under their care, and--as soon as his acquaintance allowed him
to judge--of their treating her with parental kindness. His
resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking
towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and
thankful for Mr. Thorpe's communication, he almost instantly
determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest
and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be
more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children.
Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely
to engage their father's particular respect, had seen with
astonishment the suddenness, continuance and extent of his
attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had
accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing
every thing in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced
of his father's believing it to be an advantageous connection,
it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had
the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried
him on. That they were false, the General had learnt from the
very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself,
whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under
the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine's
refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent
endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland
and Isabella, convinced that they were separated for ever, and
spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable,
hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the
advantage of the Morlands ;--confessed himself to have been
totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and
character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe
his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions
ofthe two or three last weeks proved him to be neither;
for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of
a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals,
he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness
of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself
incapable of giving the young people even a decent support.
They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous too almost
beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood,
as he had lately had particular opportunities of
discovering ; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could
not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connexions ;
a forward, bragging, scheming race.
The terrified General pronounced the name of Allen with
an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error.
The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he
knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must
devolve. The General needed no more. Enraged with almost
every body in the world but himself, he set out the next day
for the Abbey, where his performances have been seen.
I leave it to my reader's sagacity to determine how much
of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this
time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from
his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist
him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter
from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide
for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel, that in
suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up
his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or
magnified his cruelty.
Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was
almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed
for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to
expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had
been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry's indignation on
hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending
his father's views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had
been open and bold. The General, accustomed on every
ordinary occasion to give the law in his family', prepared for
no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should
dare to clothe itselfin words, could ill brook the opposition of
his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of
conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger,
though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was
sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt
himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss
Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had
been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent,
no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake
his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted.
He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire,
an engagement formed almost at the moment, to promote
the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his
intention of offering her his hand. The General was furious
in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry,
in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were
required to compose, had returned almost instantly to
Woodston; and, on the afternoon of the following day, had
begun his journey to Fullerton.
<C  XVI>
MR. and Mrs. Morland's surprize on being applied to by
Mr. Tilney, for their consent to his marrying their daughter,
was, for a few minutes, considerable ; it having never entered
their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as
nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine's
being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the
happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone
were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing
manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations;
and having never heard evil of him, it was-not their way
to suppose any evil could be told. Good-will supplying the
place of experience, his character needed no attestation,
"Catherine would make a sad heedless young housekeeper
to be sure,' was her mother's foreboding remark; but quick
was the consolation of there being nothing like practice.
There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but
till that one was removed, it must be impossible for them to
sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their
principles were steady, and while his parent so expressly
forbad the connexion, they could not allow themselves to
encourage it. That the General should come forward to solicit
the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it,
they were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation;
but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded,
and that once obtained--and their own hearts made them trust
that it could not be very long denied--their willing approbation
was instantly to follow. His consent was all that they wished
for. They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his
money. Of a very considerable fortune, his son was, by
marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income
was an income ofindependence and comfort, and under every
pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their
daughter.
The young people could not be surprized at a decision like
this. They felt and they deplored--but thev could not resent
 it; and they parted, endeavouring to hope that such a change
in the General, as each believed almost impossible, might
speedily take place, to unite them again in the fullness of
privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now his only
home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his
improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked
anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to
cry. Whether the torments of absence were softened by a
clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs,
Morland never did--they had been too kind to exact any
promise ; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at that
time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way.
The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must
be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved
either, as to its final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the
bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-tale compression
of the pages before them, that we are all hastening together to
perfect felicity. The means by which their early marriage was
effected can be the only doubt; what probable circumstance
could work upon a temper like the General's? The circumstance
which chiefly availed, was the marriage of his daughter
with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in
the course of the summer--an accession of dignity that threw
him into a fit of good-humour, from which he did not recover
till after Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and
his permission for him "to be a fool if he liked it!'
The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the
evils of such a home as Northanger had been made by Henry's
banishment, to the home of her choice and the man of her
choice, is an event which I expect to give general satisfaction
among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the occasion is
very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending
merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and
enjoy felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of
recent origin ; and he had been long withheld only by inferiority
of situation from addressing her. His unexpected accession
to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties; and never
had the Generalloved his daughter so wellin all her hours of
companionship, utility, and patient endurance, as when he
first hailed her, "Your Ladyship!' Her husband was really
deserving of her ; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and
his attachment, being to a precision the most charming young
man in the world. Any further definition ofhis merits must be
unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is
instantly before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one
in question therefore I have only to add-- (aware that the rules
of composition forbid the introduction of a character not connected
with my fable)-- that this was the very gentleman whose
negligent servant left behind him that collection of washingbills,
resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my
heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.
The influence of the Viscount and Viscountess in their
brother's behalf was assisted by that right understanding of
Mr. Morland's circumstances which, as soon as the General
would allow himself to be informed, they were qualified to
give. It taught him that he had been scarcely more misled by
Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth, than by his subsequent
malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word
were they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have
three thousand pounds. This was so material an amendment
of his late expectations, that it greatly contributed to smooth
the descent of his pride; and by no means without its effect
was the private intelligence, which he was at some pains to
procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the disposal
ofits present proprietor, was consequently open to every
greedy speculation.
On the strength of this, the General, soon after Eleanor's
marriage, permitted his son to return to Northanger, and
thence made him the bearer of his consent, very courteously
worded in a page full of empty professions to Mr. Morland.
The event which it authorized soon followed: Henry and
Catherine were married, the bells rang and every body smiled ;
and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first
day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful
delays occasioned by the General's cruelty, that they were
essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective
ages of twenty-six and eighteen, is to do pretty well; and
professing myself moreover convinced, that the General's
unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to their
felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their
knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment,
I leave it to be settled by whomsoever it may concern,
whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend
parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.
<T PERSUASION><V I><C 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 I, 1760, married, July 15, 1784,
Elizabeth, daughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park,
in the county of Gloucester; by which lady (who died 1801)
he has issue Elizabeth, born June I, 1785; Anne, born
August 9, 1787; a still-born son, Nov. 5, 1789; Mary, born
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, Dec. 16, 1810,
Charles, son and heir of Charles Musgrove, Esq, of Uppercross,
in the county of Somerset,'--and by inserting most
accurately the day ofthe 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--servin
the office of High Sheriff, representing a borough in three
successive parliaments, exertions of loyalty, and dignity o
baronet, in the first year of Charles Il., with all the Marys
and Elizabeths they had married; forming altogether tw
handsome duodecimo pages, and concluding with the arms
and motto: "Principal seat, kellynch hall, in the county of
Somerset,' and Sir Walter's hand-writing 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
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 verysuperior
character to any thing deserved by his own. Lady
Elliot had been an excellent woman, sensible and amiable;
whose judgment 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 ofindifference 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 oflife 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
every body 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 con--
tentment. 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 Tattersal'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 ofit so often, that it became vain
to attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his
daughter. He had given her some hints ofit 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 ofthem 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.
<C  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 any body else, excused
himself from offering the slightest hint, and only begged
leave to recommend an implicit deference to the excellent
judgment 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 any body ofsense 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 every thing 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 Kellych-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 his 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 our 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
any thing 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 judgment 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 ofit more than she foresaw,
and to Sir Walter's feelings they must have been dreadful.
And with regard to Anne's dislike ofBath, 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 ofits being offered in
any manner; forbad the slightest hint being dropped of hi
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
favor, 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 a
daughter of Mr. Shepherd, who had returned, after an unprosperous
marriage, to her father's house, with the additional
burthen of two children. She was a clever young
woman, who understood the art ofpleasing ; 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 judgment 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.
<C   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 Navy 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. Every thing
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-garden's being neglected.'
"As to all that,' rejoined Sir Walter coolly, "supposing I
were induced to let my house I have b, 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 ofthe idea ofmy 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, th-ere are established usages which make
every thing 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 ofmine 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 often 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 goodwill 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 rear admiral of the white.' He was in the Trafalgar
action, and has been in the East Indies since; he has been
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 weatherbeaten,
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 judgment, 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 any one 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.'
<C  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 mad 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 any body 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 that 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 dependance! 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 oflife and ardour, he knew that he should
soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead
to every thing 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
any thing 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 dependant 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 ofit ; and this, she fully believed, had the usual share,
had even more than a 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 ofearly warm attachment,
and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that overanxious
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 dependance 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.
<C  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 ark, "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 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 dependant arrangement.
Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed
to be ofany 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, every thing 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 any thing 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 ofsome use, glad to have any thing 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 any thing 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 her's! 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 any body else can have,
I thin 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 shew 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 viranda, French windows, and other prettinesses,
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 or 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 ofit; 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 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 the
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 i
gone. It is early.'
"I never want them, I assure you. They talk and laugh
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 farther 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 got 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 con-
 tinual 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 a 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 manners 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.
<C  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 other 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 ofhaving 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 house-keeping, 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 any thing 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 any thing 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 to 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 any thing 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 obliged 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 tellyou, 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
any thing 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 Miss 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 any body 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 ofby 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 herlife,
she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the
loss ofher 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 every body, 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
any thing, or dance any where ; 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
ofMr. and Mrs. Musgrove more than any thing 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 ofit 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 the voice, or the turn of sentiment
and expression.
 Mrs. Croft, though neither tall or 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 herselfin 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 pocket, &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 any thing had been said on the subject at the other
house, where the Crofts had previously been calling.
The folks of 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 pianoforte.
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 all 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 any thing 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 dis--
interested 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 reperusal 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.
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 enure 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.
<C  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, an 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 every thing 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 or
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
any thing 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 ofno 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
 any thing 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 any thing 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 any body 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 a 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 ofno 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 any thing; he always minds you at a word.
It will be a great deal better than leaving him with only
Jemima. Oh ! I will 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 any thing
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
any thing 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 enquired 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 veiw 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 drawingroom.
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 elght 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 reasonings, 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 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. Any body 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 happy 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.
"This 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.'
<C  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 led 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 an, 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 exception 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 any thing 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
 which 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 any thing 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 halfma year together?--If a man has 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 been 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 herinto Plymouth;
and here was 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-andtwenty
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
forget.'
"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 oflimbs 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, exceptiag
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 ofwomen on board, or to see
them on board; and no ship, under my command, shall ever
convey a family ofladies any where, ifl 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 commodations 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 the 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 any
thing of Harville's from the world's end, if he wanted it.
But do not imagine that I did not feelit 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
every body 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 any body 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 any thing 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 twentyfour
hours of going to sea, but never knew what sickness
was afterwards. The only time that I ever really suffered
 in body or mind, the only time that I ever fancied myself
unwell, 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.'
"Ay, 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
any thing.
<C  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 county, but
the attractions of Uppercross induced him to put this off.
There was so much of friendliness, and of flattery, and of
every thing 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 every where. 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 every thing 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 would 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 twoand
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 head-ache 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, goodhumoured
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 ofhis 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 every thing
to Henrietta. When he cane 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 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 negociation.
"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 not you
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 golng on, and put in his
claim to any thing good that might be giving away.
There being nothing to be eat, he could only have some
play; and as his aunt would not let him teaze his sick broth
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, intreated, 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 all together, 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
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 any body'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 applicatio
of solitude and reflection to recover her.
<C  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 ofadmiration; 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 dependance 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 every thing being to be communicated, and every
thing 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. "Every
body 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 any body, 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 has
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
ifit were really so, I should do just the same in her place. If
I loved a man, as she loves the Admiral, I would be always
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 ofa 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 for a quartr 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 doher good;'- and, in short,
her look and manner declared, that go she would not.
After a little sucession of these sort of debates and consultations,
it was settled between Charles and his two sisters,
that he, and Henrietta, should 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 artifical, 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 nutsin 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 hedgerow,
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 oftoo yielding and indecisive
a character, that no influence over it can be depended on.--
You are never sure of a good impression being durable.
 Every body 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 any where.--This
nut,' he continued, with playful solemnity,--"while so many
of its 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 her 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.
Every thing now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth ;
nothing cxould 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 ofsome 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 full a 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 into 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 canvas, and bring us home one of these young ladies to
Kellynch. Then, there would always be company for us.--
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
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 directlon 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 ofdriving, which she imagined no bad representation
of the general guidance of their affairs, found herself
safely deposited by them at the cottage.
<C  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 any where. 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 fourand-
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 retum 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 deserve 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
unexpensive, 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 an 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 indoors 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 possible 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 ofits labours, the effect
of its influence on his habits, the picture ofrepose 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 ofusefulness 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 every thing 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 the season,' and the "nothorough-
fare 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 offeelings
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 shewed 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; andfeeling
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 endurance.
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.
<C  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 ofits 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
 ou 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 any thing 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 any thing 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 ofa 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 ofLady Russell,
a woman of the greatest influence with every body! I
always look upon her as able to persuade a person to any
thing! 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 ofevents 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 ofthe gentleman who is just gone away?'
"Yes, Sir, a Mr. Elliot ; a gentleman oflarge 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 sav 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 so e day.'
"There ! you see !' cried Mary, in an ecstacy, "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 pannel, 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 early 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 ofit; 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 in 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 feelings 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
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 per force 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 she
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 pre--
cipitate 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 that 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 every thing 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 shewed 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 wait 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 every thing, before the
others began to reflect. Captain Benwick must give up his
room to them, and get a bed elsewhere--and the whole was
settled. They were only concerned that the house could
accommodate no more; and yet perhaps by "putting the chil-
 dren away in the maids' 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 every where, was just such another. Between
those two, she could want no possible attendance by day or
night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of
j 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 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 Captaia
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 to
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 every thing
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 wrapt up in her welfare.
Captain Benwick was most considerately attentive to her,
and, united as thef' 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 of 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 illjudged,
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 ofit, 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 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 judgment, 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.
<V II><C  I>
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 every thing 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 any body 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 ofthe 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 persuade 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 solltary range of the house was the
honsequence.
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 ofits 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 Camdenplace,
or her own sister's intimacy with Mrs. Clay. She was
actually forced to exert herself, to meet Lady Russell with any
thing 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 stillit
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 the 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 herselfa 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 yester morn, 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 reat.--This was handsome,--and gave her more pleasure
than almost any thing 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
 judgments 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 all 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 plaister 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 ifyou 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 ofits 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 oflife.--Such a number oflookingglasses!
oh Lord! there was no getting away from oneself.
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 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 Went-
 worth at Kellynch-hall, or of seeing him in company with
her friend. Every thing was safe enough, and she smiled over
the many anxious feelings she had wasted on the subject.
<C  II>
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 soo a
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 every body to be living in Upper-
 cross; 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 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 any thing 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 any thing 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, fill her
head were 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 that 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.'
Every body 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 newsmen,
 muffin-men and milk-men, 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 as 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, ofhis being "a man whom she had no wish to see.'
She had a great wish to see him. If he really sought to reconcile
himselflike 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.
<C  III>
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. Every body 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 land-holder; 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 foldingdoors,
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 any where.'
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 only
known 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 in 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 any thing tolerable, by the
effect which a man of decent appearance produced. He had
 never walked any where arm in arm with Colonel Wallis,
who was a fine military figure, though sandy-haired) with-
 out 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 every thing.
"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 ofhers 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 cer-
 tainly 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
mantle-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 ofthem 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!
<C  IV>
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 thln in her
person, in her cheeks; her skin, her complexion, greatly
improved--clearer, fresher. Had she been using any thiing
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 continue
as you are; you cannot be better than well; or I should recommend
Gowland, the constant use of Gowland, during the
 ing 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 every thing
must take its chance. The evil ofthe 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 Camdenplace.
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. Every thing 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 every thing 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 oftime 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 hiim 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 ofits 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 to be 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 Kkellynch. 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 Hon. Miss Carteret, to be arranged wherever they might
be most visible; and "Our cousins in Laura-place,'--"Our
cousins, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret,' were talked of
to every body.
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 every body. 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 that 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 these 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, my dear cousin, you are unjust to 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.
<C  V>
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 ofthere being an old school-fellow 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 excepting bloom, and with
manners as consciously right as they were invariably gentle;
and twelve years had transformed the fine-looking, wellgrown
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 bed-room 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 hous 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 counter-balance 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 dis-
Interested attachment any where, 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 has a large acquaintance,
of course professionally, among those who can afford to buy,
and she disposes of my merchandize. She always takes the
right time for applying. Every body'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, ofheroism, 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 tillit
 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 de rved. 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, Eliza-
 beth 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 even-
 ing 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 any thing 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
the five thousand Mr. Smiths whose names are to be met with
every where. And what is her attraction? That she is old and
sickly.--Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the
most extraordinary taste! Every thing 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 Westgatebuildings!--
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 sirname 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 ofleaving 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 every body 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 judgment,
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 Sundaytravelling
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 on 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 everybody. 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 anybody'.
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.
<C  VI>
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 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 at 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 arrived in
Bath? The Crofts whorent 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 any body. 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 Har-
 villes; but you will be surprised to hear that 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 has 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 tomorrow.
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 offer to take any
thing. 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 every thing 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 sorethroat
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 envelop, 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 any thing 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. Biut 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 ofit, 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 any thing 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 oddlooking
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 any thing
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 highspirited,
joyous, talking Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected,
thinking, feeling, reading Captain Benwick, seemed each of
them every thing 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 ofits 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 Gaystreet,
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 every thing, and to walk for her life, to do him
good. Anne saw them where ever 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 amost 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'shearty 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 orten 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 ofa boat. Do look at it. Did you
ever see the like? What queer fellows your fine painters must
be, to think that any body 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 heartilyl "I
would not venture over a horsepond in it. Well,' (turning
away) "now, where are you bound? Can I go any where for
you, or with you? Can I be ofany 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 ofthe way. Sophy
cannot bear them. They played me a pitiful trick once--got
away 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 into 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 had 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,
this 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 toocommon
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 certainly 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 hlm to Bath ?'
<C  VII>
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 any thing 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; halflives 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 Pulteneystreet,
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
eves 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 any thing.--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 ofa person patronised by Lady
Dalrymple. Ofcourse 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.
<C  VIII>
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 every thing 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 acknowledgment 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 himselfto 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 some 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 any thing 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 few 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 agi-
 tated 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
long before the evening were over--and at present, perhaps,
it was as well to be asunder. She was in need ofa 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 an humbler way.
 The party was divided, and disposed of on two contiguous
benches: Anne was among those on the foremost, and Mr.
Elliot had manoeuvred 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 ofit, 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 of 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 ofin 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 described, 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
"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
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 ofthem 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 came 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 re-possessed,
and another hour of pleasure or of penance was to be set 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 eemed 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 better singing; and, in short,
hat 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.
Tealousy 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 her real sentiments? It was misery to think of
Mr. Elliot's attentions.--Their evil was incalculable.
<C  IX>
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 every thing 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 Westgatebuildings.
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. Every body of any consequence or notoriety In
Bath was well known 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 o 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 exceed-
 ingly 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 tlme, 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
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
"Elliot's relation. If in that light, if there is any thing
which you suppose his cousin might falrly 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 comes. Till it does
come, you know, we women never mean to have any body,
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 oflast 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 by, 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 fmm 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, ofone 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 ? Shalll 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 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; who, 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 him-
 self. 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
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 independance. 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 ver 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 herselfjust 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 circumstance, 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 of 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, any body 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 bed-room, 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, I803.
"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 with 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,
 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 shews 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
 he 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 testi-
 mony 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 ! are you 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 Marlboroughbuildings.
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
vou 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 Camdenplace,
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
any thing 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 your return 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 every body 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
manoeuvres 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 any body 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 yet 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 ofliving, and that
from the first, there had been a great deal of several 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 judgment, Mr. Smith had appointed him
the executor of his will; but Mr. Elliot would not act, and the
difficulties and distresses 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.
as 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 hardhearted
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 ofthe law. This was a cruel aggravation
of actually streightened 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 every thing, 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 every thing relative to Mrs.
Smith, in which his conduct was involved.
<C  X>
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 any thing 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 her-
 self, and felt safe till to-morrow, 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 any body in my life spell
harder for an invitation. Poor man! I was really in paln 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 hlm 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 up 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 tomorrow, 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 ofMr. 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
every thing. 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 ofhis 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 with 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 were 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
into 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 every thing 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 arrange 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 oflife, 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 ostenta-
 tiously 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 proceed-
 ing. 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 everv thing 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 every
thing 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 forward--
ness 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 this
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 alway's been such
good friends, the pleasant prospects 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 as well pleased if the gentlemen
were richer, but he has no other fault to find. Money,
you know, commg 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 halflike 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 every thing 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
I 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 every thlng 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 every body 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
intreated to give them as much ofher time as possible, invited
for every day and all day long, or rather claimed as a part of
the family ; and in return, she naturally fell into all her wanted
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 any body; 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 halfan hour, when their diningroom,
spacious as it was, seemed more than half filled: a
party of steady old friends were seated round 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 dependance--"
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 seem 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 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 wlndow. 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
interests, 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 tomorrow
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 on purpose to meet Lady
Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr. Elliot--all the princial
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 ifyou 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. Ifl would not go for the sake ofyour
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 halfjesting, 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, moreover, 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
if nobody else would.
Captain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fireplace;
probably for the sake of walking away from it soon
afterwards, and taking a station, with less barefaced 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 ifit 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
acknowledgment 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 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 ofElizabeth's including every body !' 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 ofits kind in Bath, while harassing herselfin secret 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 that 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 ofhaving
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.'
<C  XI>
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 characterlike 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. Musgove, 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,
it you wlll give me materials.'
Materials were all at hand, on a separate table; he went to
it and nearly turning his back on 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 things 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 ofmarrying,
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
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 things 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 ofmarrying,
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 ofan 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 reassumed 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 ho e 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 doated on him.'
"It would not be the nature ofany 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, so 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 he 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 too hard indeed'
(with a faltering voice) "if woman's feelings were to be added
to all this.'
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, Mrs. 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 any thing.'
"But how shall we prove any thing?'
"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 offin, 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 every
thing 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
"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, and standing with his back
towards Mrs. Musgrove, he drew out a letter from under the
scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing
entreaty fixed on her for a moment, 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 ! Any thing was possible, any thing 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 , ou 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 an 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 fallin 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 has 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 again this morning,
I dare say. Do promise me.'
"To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain
Harville any where, 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 in Union-street, when a quicker step behind,
a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments preparation
for the sight ofCaptain 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-sized double-barrel of mine,
which you shot with one day, round Winthrop.'
There could not be an objection. There could be only a
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 for it 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 every thing, 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 house-keepers, flirting girls,
nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those
retrospections and acknowledgments, 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 every thing 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 selfwill,
between the darings of heedlessness and the resolution
 of a collected mind. There, he had seen every thing 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 whetherI 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
despondence, were dwelt on with energy.
 "To see you,' cried he, "in the midst ofthose 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
whay 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 so different, and my age
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
every thing dangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and
she went to her room, and grew steadfast and fearless in the
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 common-place 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, every thing of peculiar cordiality and fervent interest,
which the same consciousness sought to conceal;--and with
Captain Wentworth, some moments of communication 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 green-house 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,
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.'
<C  XII>
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 receivlng 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 ofkeeping 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 likewise
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 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 every thing 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 ofrecovering 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.
<T THE ORIGINAL ENDING OF PERSUASION>
<C CHAP. 10>
 July 8.
With all this knowledge of Mr E--& this authority to impart
it, Anne left Westgate Buildgs--her mind deeply busy in
revolving what she had heard, feeling, thinking, recalling &
forseeing everything; shocked at Mr Elliot--sighing over
 future Kellynch, and pained for Lady Russell, whose confidence
in him had been entire.--The Embarrassment which
must be felt from this hour in his presence!--How to behave
to him?--how to get rid of him?--what to do by any of the
Party at home?--where to be blind? where to be active?--
It was altogether a confusion of Images & Doubts--a perplexity,
an agitation which she could not see the end of--and
she was in Gay St & still so much engrossed, that she started
on being addressed by Adml Croft, as if he were a person
unlikely to be met there. It was within a few steps of his own
door.--"You are going to call upon my wife, said he, she will
be very glad to see you.'--Anne denied it "No--she really
had not time, she was in her way home'--but while she spoke,
the Adml had stepped back & knocked at the door, calling
out, "Yes, yes, do go in; she is all alone. go in & rest yourself.'
--Anne felt so little disposed at this time to be in company
of any sort, that it vexed her to be thus constrained--but she
was obliged to stop. "Since you are so very kind, said she,
 I will just ask M'' Croft how she does, but I really cannot
stay 5 minutes.--You are sure she is quite alone.'--The
possibility of Capt. W. had occurred--and most fearfully
anxious was she to be assured--either that he was within or
that he was not; which, might have been a question.--"Oh!
yes, quite alone--Nobody but her Mantuamaker with her,
& they have been shut up together this half hour, so it must
be over soon.'--"Her Mantua maker!--then I am sure my
calling now, wd be most inconvenient.--Indeed you must
allow me to leave my Card & be so good as to explain it
afterwards to Mrs C.' "No, no, not at all, not at all. She will
be very happy to see you. Mind--I will not swear that she
has not something particular to say to you--but that will all
come out in the right place. I give no hints.--Why, Miss
Elliot, we begin to hear strange things of you--(smiling in
her face)--But you have not much the Look ofit--as Grave
as a little Judge.'--Anne blushed.--"Aye, aye, that will do.
Now, it is right. I thought we were not mistaken.' She was left
to guess at the direction of his Suspicions;--the first wild
idea had been of some disclosure from his Br in law--but
she was ashamed the next moment--& felt how far more
probable that he should be meaning Mr E.--The door was
opened--& the Man evidently beginning to deny his Mistress,
when the sight of his Master stopped him. The Adml enjoyed
the joke exceedingly. Anne thought his triumph over Stephen
rather too long. At last however, he was able to invite her
upstairs, & stepping before her said--"I will just go up with
you myself & shew you in--. I cannot stay, because I must
go to the P. Office, but if you will only sit down for 5 minutes
I am sure Sophy will come--and you will find nobody to
disturb you--there is nobody but Frederick here--' opening
the door as he spoke.--Such a person to be passed over as a
Nobody to her !--After being allowed to feel quite secure--
indifferent--at her ease, to have it burst on her that she was
to be the next moment in the same room with him!--No
time for recollection ! --for planning behaviour, or regulating
manners !--There was time only to turn pale, before she had
passed through the door, & met the astonished eyes of
Capt. W--. who was sitting by the fire pretending to read &
prepared for no greater surprise than the Admiral's hasty
return.--Equally unexpected was the meeting, on each side.
There was nothing to be done however, but to stifle feelings
& be quietly polite;--and the Admiral was too much on the
alert, to leave any troublesome pause.--He repeated again
what he had said before about his wife & everybody--insisted
on Anne's sitting down & being perfectly comfortable, was
sorry he must leave her himself, but was sure Mrs Croft wd
be down very soon, & wd go upstairs & give her notice
directly.--Anne was sitting down, but now she arose again
--to entreat him not to interrupt Mrs C--& re-urge the wish
of going away & calling another time.--But the Adml would
not hear of it;--and if she did not return to the charge with
unconquerable Perseverance, or did not with a more passive
Determination walk quietly out of the room--(as certainly
she might have done) may she not be pardoned?--If she had
no horror of a few minutes Tete a Tete with Capt. W--,
may she not be pardoned for not wishing to give him the
 idea that she had?--She reseated herself, & the Adml took
leave; but on reaching the door, said, "Frederick, a word
with you, if you please.'--Capt. W-- went to him; and instantly,
before they were well out of the room, the Adml
continued--"As I am going to leave you together, it is but
fair I should give you something to talk of--& so, if you
please--' Here the door was very firmly closed; she could
guess by which of the two; and she lost entirely what immediately
followed; but it was impossible for her not to distinguish
parts of the rest, for the Adml on the strength of the
Door's being shut was speaking without any management of
voice, tho' she cd hear his companion trying to check him.--
 She could not doubt their being speaking of her. She heard
her own name & Kellynch repeatedly--she was very much
distressed. She knew not what to do, or what to expect--and
among other agonies felt the possibility of Capt. W--'s not
returning into the room at all, which after her consenting to
stay would have been--too bad for Language.--They seemed
to be talking of the Adml' Lease of Kellynch. She heard him
say something of "the Lease being signed or not signed'--
that was not likely to be a very agitating subject--but the
followed "I hate to be at an uncertainty--I must know at
once--Sophy thinks the same.' Then, in a lower tone, Capt.
W-- seemed remonstrating--wanting to be excused--wanting
to put something off. "Phoo, Phoo--answered the Admiral
now is the Time. If you will not speak, I will stop & speak
myself.'--"Very well Sir, very well Sir, followed with some
impatience from his companion, opening the door as he
spoke.--"You will then--you promise you will?' replied the
Admiral, in all the power of his natural voice, unbroken even
by one thin door.--"Yes--Sir--Yes.' And the Adml was
hastily left, the door was closed, and the moment arrived in
which Anne was alone with Capt. W--. She could not attempt
to see how he looked; but he walked immediately to a window,
as if irresolute & embarrassed;--and for about the space of
5 seconds, she repented what she had done--censured it as
unwise, blushed over it as indelicate.--She longed to be able
to speak of the weather or the Concert--but could only compass
the releif of taking a Newspaper in he hand --The
distressing pause was soon over however; he turned round
in half a minute, and coming towards the Table where she
sat, said, in a voice of effort & constraint--"You must have
heard too much already Madam to be in any doubt of my
having promised Adml Croft to speak to you on some particular
subject--& this conviction determines me to do it--
however repugnant to my--to all my sense of propriety, to
be taking so great a liberty.--You will acquit me of Impertinence
I trust, by considering me as speaking only for another,
and speaking by Necessity;--and the Adml is a Man who
can never be thought Impertinent by one who knows him as
you do--. His Intentions are always the kindest & the Best;
--and you will perceive that he is actuated by none other, in
the application which I am now with--with very peculiar
feelings--obliged to make.'--He stopped--but merely to
recover breath;--not seeming to expect any answer.--Anne
listened, as if her Life depended on the issue of his Speech.
--He proceeded, with a forced alacrity.--"The Adml, Madam,
was this morning confidently imformed that you were--upon
my word I am quite at a loss, ashamed--(breathing & speaking
quick)--the awkwardness of giving Information of this
sort to one ofthe Parties--You can be at no loss to understand
me--It was very confidently said that M" Elliot--that every-
 thing was settled in the family for an Union between Mr
 Elliot--& yourself. It was added that you were to live at
Kellynch--that Kellynch was to be given up. This, the
Admiral knew could not be correct--But it occurred to him
that it might be the wish of the Parties--And my commission
from him Madam, is to say, that if the Family wish is such,
his Lease of Kellynch shall be cancel'd, & he & my sister will
provide themselves with another home, without imagining
themselves to be doing anything which under similar circumstances
wd not be done for them.--This is all Madam.--
A very few words in reply from you will be sufficient.--That
I should be the person commissioned on this subject is
extraordinary !--and beleive me Madam, it is no less painful.
" --A very few words however will put an end to the awkwardness
& distress we may both be feeling.' Anne spoke a word
or two, but they were un-intelligible--And before she could
command herself, he added,--"If you only tell me that the
Adml may address a Line to Sir Walter, it will be enough.
Pronounce only the words, he may.--I shall immediately
follow him with your message.--' This was spoken, as with a
fortitude which seemed to meet the message.--"No Sir--said
Anne--There is no message.--You are misin-the Adml is
misinformed.--I do justice to the klndness of his Intentions,
but he is quite mistaken. There is no Truth in any such
report.'--He was a moment silent.--She turned her eyes towards
him for the first time since his re-entering the room.
His colour was varying--& he was looking at her with all the
Power & keenness, which she beleived no other eyes than
his, possessed. "No Truth in any such report!--he repeated.
--No Truth in any part of it ?'--"None.'--He had been standing
by a chair--enjoying the releif of leaning on it--or of
playing with it;--he now sat down--drew it a little nearer to
her--& looked, with an expression which had something more
than penetration in it, something softer;--Her Countenance
did not discourage.--It was a silent, but a very powerful
Dialogue;--on his side, Supplication, on her's acceptance.--
Still, a little nearer--and a hand taken and pressed--and
"Anne, my own dear Anne!'--bursting forth in the fullness
of exquisite feeling--and all Suspense & Indecision were
over.--They were re-united. They were restored to all that
had been lost. They were carried back to the past, with only
an increase of attachment & confidence, & only such a flutter
of present Delight as made them little fit for the interruption
of Mrs Croft, when she joined them not long afterwards.--
She probably, in the observations of the next ten minutes,
saw something to suspect--& tho' it was hardly possible for
a woman of her description to wish the Mantuamaker had
imprisoned her longer, she might be very likely wishing for
some excuse to run about the house some storm to break
the windows above, or a summons to the Admiral's Shoemaker
below. --Fortune favoured them all however in another
way--in a gentle, steady rain--just happily set in as the
Admiral returned & Anne rose to go.--She was earnestly
invited to stay dinner;--a note was dispatched to Camden
Place--and she staid;--staid till 10 at night. And during that
time, the Husband & wife, either by the wife's contrivance,
or by simply going on in their usual way, were frequently out
of the room together--gone up stairs to hear a noise, or down
stairs to settle their accounts, or upon the Landing place to
trim the Lamp.--And these precious moments were turned
to so good an account that all the most anxious feelings of the
past were gone through.--Before they parted at night, Anne
had the felicity of being assured in the first place that--(so
far from being altered for the worse!)--she had gained inexpressibly
in personal Loveliness; & that as to Character--
her's was now fixed on his Mind as Perfection itself--maintaining
the just Medium of Fortitude & Gentleness ;--that he
had never ceased to love & prefer her, though it had been only
at Uppercross that he had learn't to do her Justice--& only
at Lymemthat he had begun yo understand his own sensations;
--that at Lyme he had received Lessons of more than one
kind;--the passing admiration of M' Elliot had at least
roused him, and the scenes on the Cobb & at Capt. Harville's
had fixed her superiority.--In his preceding attempts to
attach himself to Louisa Musgrove, (the attempts of Anger
& pique)--he protested that he had continually felt the
impossibility of really caring 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, the
unrivalled hold it possessed over his own.--There he had
learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of Principle &
the Obstinacy of Self-will, between the Darings of Heedlessness,
& the Resolution of a collected Mind--there he had
seen everything to exalt in his estimation the Woman he had
lost, & 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 to the present
had his penance been the most severe.--He had no sooner
been free from the horror & 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.--He found that he was considered by his
friend Harville, as an engaged Man. The Harvilles entertained
not a doubt of a mutual attachment between him &
Louisa--and though this to a degree, was contradicted
instantly--it yet made him feel that perhaps by her family,
by everybody, by herself even, the same idea might be held--
and that he was notiee in honour--though, if such were
to be the conclusion, too free alas ! in Heart.--He had never
thought justly on this subject before--he had not sufficiently
considered that his excessive Intimacy at Uppercross must
" have it's danger of ill consequence in many ways, and that
Girls, he might be exciting unpleasant reports, if not, raising
unrequited regard ! --He found, too late, that he had entangled
himself--and that precisely as he became thoroughly satisfied
of his not faring for Louisa at all, he must regard himself
as bound to her, if her feelings for him, were what the Harvilles
supposed.--It determined him to leave Lyme--& await
her perfect recovery elsewhere. He would gladly weaken, by
any fair means, whatever sentiments or speculations concerning
him might exist; and he went therefore into Shropshire
meaning after a while, to return to the Crofts at Kellynch,
& t he found requisite.--He had remained in Shropshire
lamenting the Blindness of his own Pride, & the Blunders of
his own Calculations, till at once released from Louisa by the
astonishing felicity of her engagement with Benwicke. Bath,
Bath--had instantly followed, in Thought; & not long after,
infact. To Bath, to arrive with Hope, to be torn by Jealousy
at the first sight of Mr E--, to experience all the changes of
each at the Concert, to be miserable by this morning's
circumstantial report, to be now, more happy than Language
could express, or any heart but his own be capable of.
He was very eager & very delightful in the description
of what he had felt at the Concert.--The Eveng seemed to
have been made up of exquisite moments;--the moment
of her stepping forward in the Octagon Room to speak
to him--the moment of Mr E's appearing & tearing her
away, & one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning
hope, or increasing Despondence, were all 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 & smiling--& feel all the horrible
Eligibilities & 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 not it enough to make the fool of me, which
my behaviour expressed?--How could I look on without
agony?--Was not the very sight of the Fri-end 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 not it all
against me ?'--
"You should have distinguished--replied Anne--You
 should not have suspected me now;--The case so different,
& my age so different!--If I was wrong, in yeilding to persuasion
once, remember that it was to Persuasion exerted on
the side of Safety, not of Risk. When I yeilded, 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, & all Duty violated.'--"Perhaps I ought to have
reasoned thus, he replied, but I could not.--I could not
derive benefit from the later knowledge of your Character
which I had acquired, 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 yeilded, 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 think 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 with this beleif.--And yet--I was determined
to see you again.--My spirits rallied with the morning,
& I felt that I had still a motive for remaining here.--The
Admirals news indeed, was a revulsion. Since that moment,
I have been decided what to do--and had it been confirmed,
this would have been my last day in Bath.'
There was time for all this to pass--with such Interruptions
only as enhanced the charm of the communication--
and Bath cd scarcely contain any other two Beings at once so
rationally & so rapturously happy as during that eveng
occupied the Sopha of Mrs Croft's Drawing room in Gay St.
 Capt. W.--had taken care to meet the Adml as he returned
into the house, to satisfy him as to Mr E-- & Kellynch;--
and the delicacy of the Admiral's good nature kept him from
saying another word on the subject to Anne.--He was quite
concerned lest he might have been giving her pain by touching
a tender part. Who could say?--She might be liking her
Cousin, better than he liked her.--And indeed, upon recollection,
if they had been to marry at all why should they have
waited so long--
When the Eveng closed, it is probable that the Adml
received some new Ideas from his Wife;--whose particularly
friendly manner in parting with her, gave Anne the gratifying
persuasion of her seeing & approving.
It had been such a day to Anne!--the hours which had
passed since her leaving Camden Place, had done so much !
--She was almost bewildered, almost too happy in looking
back.--It was necessary to sit up half the Night & lie awake
the remainder to comprehend with composure her present
state, & pay for the overplus of Bliss, by Headake & Fatigue.--
<C CHAP. 11>
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 beleive it to be Truth
--and if such parties succeed, how should a Capt. W-- &
an Anne E--, with the advantage of maturity of Mind,
consciousness of Right, & one Independant Fortune between
them, fail of bearing down every opposition? They might in
fact, have born down a great deal more than they met with,
for there was little to distress them beyond the want of
Graciousness & Warmth. Sir W. made no objection, &
Elizth did nothing worse than look cold & unconcerned.--
Capt. W-- with $25,000--& as high in his Profession as
Merit & Activity cd 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, & who cd give his Daughter but
a small part of the share of ten Thousand pounds which must
be her's hereafter.--Sir Walter indeed tho' he had no affection
for his Daughter & 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 Capt.
W.-- & eyed him well, he was very much struck by his
personal claims & felt that his superiority of appearance
 might be not unfairly balanced against her superiority of
Rank;--and all this, together with his well-sounding nam,
enabled Sir W. at last to prepare his pen with a very good
grace for the insertion of the Marriage in the volume of
Honour.--The only person among them whose opposition
of feelings cd excite any serious anxiety, was Lady Russel-
--Anne knew that Lady R-- must be suffering some pain in
understanding & relinquishing Mr E-- & be making some
struggles to become truly acquainted with & do justice to
Capt. W.--This however, was what Lady R-- 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 Capt. W.'s manners had
not suited her own ideas, she had been too quick in suspecting
them to indicate a Character of dangerous Impetuosity,
& that because Mr Elliot's manners had precisely pleased her
in their propriety & correctness, their general politeness &
suavity, she had been too quick in receiving them as the
certain result of the most correct opinions & well regulated
Mind.--There was nothing less for Lady R. to do than to
admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, & to take
up a new set of opinions & 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 R. had been less gifted in this part of
Understanding than her young friend;--but she was a very
good Woman; & if her second object was to be sensible &
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 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 that she had been greatly instrumental
to the connection, by having Anne staying with her in the
Autumn; & as her own Sister must be better than her Husbands
Sisters, it was very agreable that Captn W-- should
be a richer Man than either Capt. B. or Charles Hayter.--
She had something to suffer perhaps when they came into
contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of Seniorit
& the Mistress of a very pretty Landaulet--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 Capt. W-- 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 E. withdraw, & 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 hopes of keeping Sir
Walter single by the watchfulness which a son in law's rights
wd have given--But tho' discomfited & disappointed, he cd
still do something for his own interest & his own enjoyment.
He soon quitted Bath and on Mrs Clay's quitting it likewise
soon afterwards & being next heard of, as established under
his Protection in London, it was evident how double a Game
he had been playing, & 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, & she had sacrificed
for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming longer
for Sir Walter;--she has Abilities however as well as Affec--
tions, 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
& caressed at last into making her the wife of Sir William.--
 It cannot be doubted that Sir Walter & Eliz: were shocked
& mortified by the loss of their companion & 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 & follow others, without being flattered & followed
themselves is but a state of half enjoyment.
Anne, satisfied at a very early period, of Lady Russel's
meaning to love Capt. W-- 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 keenly.--The disproportion in their fortunes was
nothing;--it did not give her a moment's regret;--but to
have no Family to receive & estimate him properly, nothing
of respectability, of Harmony, of Goodwill to offer in return
for all the Worth & all the prompt welcome which met her in
his Brothers & 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 R. & Mrs Smith.--To those however,
he was very well-disposed to attach himself. Lady R-- inspite
of all her former transgressions, he could now value from his
heart;--while he was not obliged to say that he beleived her
to have been right in originally dividing them, he was ready
to say almost anything else in her favour;--& as for Mrs
Smith, she had claims of various kinds to recommend her
quickly & 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 one
of their first visitors in their settled Life--and Capt. Wentworth,
by putting her in the way of recovering her Husband's
property in the W. Indies, by writing for her, & acting for
her, & seeing her through all the petty Difficulties of the case,
with the activity & exertion ofa fearless Man, & a determined
friend, fully requited the services she had rendered, or had
ever meant to render, to his Wife. Mrs Smith's enjoyments
were not spoiled by this improvement of Income, with some
improvement of health, & the acquisition of such friends to
be often with, for her chearfulness & mental Activity did not
fail her, & while those prime supplies of Good remained,
she might have bid defiance even to greater accessions of
worldly Prosperity. She might have been absolutely rich &
perfectly healthy, & 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 Captn 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 it's Domestic Virtues, than in it's National Importance.--
FINIS
July 18.--1816.