Jane Austen and Her Works

“Persuasion.” [70]

I.

At eighteen Anne Elliot, a pretty, gentle, motherless girl, one of the three daughters of a poor and proud baronet, had met a gallant young naval officer, a Lieutenant Wentworth, who had paid ample homage to her attractions. The couple had fallen very genuinely and deeply in love. Their marriage was impossible till the gentleman should rise in his profession, or come home with prize-money. But Sir Walter Elliot, more from indifference than indulgence to Anne, would have permitted the engagement—entered into for a brief space of mingled happiness and misery—to continue. It was Lady Russell—Anne’s mother’s friend—who interfered, and by her urgent representations of the trials of a long engagement, and the sacrifice of the man’s prospects, still more than those of the woman, in a poor marriage, induced Anne to consent to the engagement being broken off.

The couple parted in mutual sorrow, strongly dashed by resentment on the gentleman’s side. They did not meet, they hardly heard of each other again, for eight years, during which the young officer followed his profession and won honours and fortune; while the girl he had loved lived on with her uncongenial relatives, and passed, with more than usual rapidity, from blooming, light-hearted girlhood to pale, serious womanhood.[71] In the interval certainly she might have married, with the approval of Lady Russell, who began to take alarm, and grow less exacting for her favourite. But Anne refused Charles Musgrove, younger, of Uppercross, who contented himself afterwards with her sister Mary. This event happened two years after the rupture with Lieutenant Wentworth, and six or seven years before the opening of the story. Since then, to Lady Russell’s mortification, no desirable wooer had succeeded these earlier suitors.

In the course of the thirteen years during which Elizabeth Elliott, a handsome, cold-hearted woman, had presided over Kellynch and her father’s house in London, opened county balls, and taken the lead at county dinner parties, Sir Walter, a foolish old coxcomb, had managed to get into embarrassed circumstances. The father and daughter had a capacity for spending, but none for retrenchment; so that when economy became absolutely necessary, the only feasible plan which presented itself was for Sir Walter to let Kellynch, and retire to Bath, where he could practise a certain amount of display with less outlay. Lady Russell, the great friend of the family, reluctantly advised this course.

The termination of the war is turning many naval officers ashore, and Kellynch is soon let to an Admiral Croft. On the first mention of him as a possible tenant Sir Walter asks superciliously, “And who is Admiral Croft?” and Anne joins in the conversation all at once, volunteering the minute information, “He is Rear-admiral of the White. He was on the Trafalgar station, and has been in the East Indies since. He has been stationed there, I believe, several years.”

When it is nearly settled that Admiral Croft is to come to Kellynch, Anne Elliott reflects sadly as she paces her favourite walk, “A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here.” “He” is not Admiral Croft, but his brother-in-law, Captain Wentworth.

When it is fixed that the Crofts are to come to Kellynch, and the Elliots are to go to Bath, it is also fixed that Anne is to pay visits to Lady Russell and to young Mrs. Musgrove, before she joins the rest of her family.

At Uppercross village there are the Great House, occupied by the squire and his wife, with their numerous younger children, prominent among whom are the two pleasant girls, Henrietta and Louisa Musgrove, and the Cottage where Charles Musgrove and his wife, Anne Elliott’s sister, reside. Mrs. Charles, though selfish, and not over-wise, is less destitute of family affection than Elizabeth Elliot. Charles Musgrove is well-intentioned and friendly, with more brains than his wife, though the great object of his life is sport.

The Great House gaieties serve to enliven the family life at the Cottage, for the Musgroves are extremely popular, have a constant succession of neighbourly visitors, give many dinner-parties, and even an occasional unpremeditated little ball, because the girls are “wild for dancing.”

Kellynch and Uppercross are near enough for visiting, and the Musgroves have to call for the Crofts. Anne is glad enough to be spared the visit, but she has no objection to be at home during the return visit.

Admiral Croft and his wife, who has been almost as much at sea as her husband—since these were the days when entire domestic establishments were permitted, to some extent, on board the ships in his Majesty’s navy—show themselves frank, unaffected, and cordial, as become their antecedents. Anne would have heartily approved of Mrs. Croft, even though she had not been prepossessed in her favour, and specially interested in her, because of the opportunity of watching for a likeness. The regard is extended to the bluff, good-humoured admiral. Just one or two awkward references are made. Mrs. Croft reminds Anne of her acquaintance with the elder lady’s brother, but it turns out to be Edward Wentworth, the clergyman, and not Frederick, the sailor, to whom their sister refers. It may be, also, the same Edward of whom the admiral is thinking, when he remarks, “We are expecting a brother of Mrs. Croft’s here soon,” and is prevented from saying anything more.

But the next communication with one of the Misses Musgrove proves it was not Edward who was the coming brother. When the Crofts had called that morning, they had happened to say her brother, Captain Wentworth, just returned to England, or paid off, or something, was coming to see them almost directly; “and, most unluckily, it came into mamma’s head, when they were gone, that Wentworth, or something 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.”[72]

In a few days Captain Wentworth is at Kellynch. Mr. Musgrove has fulfilled his intention of calling for him, and it is by the merest chance that Anne and Mary, in one of their daily visits to the Great House, have not encountered Captain Wentworth paying his return visit.

The two sisters were stopped by a bad fall which one of the children had, in which his collar-bone was dislocated, and such alarming consequences apprehended for a time, that Anne was entirely engrossed by the claims upon her.

When the little boy is rather better, his young aunts who have come to inquire for him are at liberty to speak of some other person, and to try to express how perfectly delighted they are with Captain Wentworth—how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they think him than any individual among their male acquaintances who has been at all a favourite before; how glad they are that he has promised, in reply to their papa and mamma’s pressing invitation, to dine with them to-morrow.

To begin with, neither Charles Musgrove nor his wife can think of leaving the child to join the dinner party. But after the boy has passed a good night, and the surgeon’s report is favourable, they—first the father and then the mother—allow themselves to leave him, for a few hours, in the care of his aunt.

Charles Musgrove and his wife come home delighted with their new acquaintance. He is to shoot with Charles Musgrove next morning. There had been some mention of Captain Wentworth’s coming to breakfast at the cottage, but he had been afraid of being in Mrs. Charles Musgrove’s way on account of the child, and it had been agreed that Charles should meet him at the Great House instead.

Anne understands it. He wishes to avoid seeing her. He has inquired for her slightly, as might suit a former slight acquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged, probably with the same view of escaping an introduction when they do meet.

The morning hours of the Cottage were later than those at the other house. Mary and Anne are only beginning breakfast when Charles comes in for his dogs, and announces that his sisters are following with Captain Wentworth, who proposes to wait on Mrs. Charles Musgrove, for a few minutes, if convenient; and though Charles has answered for the state of the child, he would not be satisfied without Charles’s running on to give notice.

Mary is full of gratification at the little attention, “while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the most consoling that it would soon be over. And it was soon over. In two minutes after Charles’s preparation the others appeared; they were in the drawing-room. Her eye half met Captain Wentworth’s; a bow, a curtsey passed. She heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that was right, said something to the Misses Musgrove, enough to mark an easy footing; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices; but a few minutes ended it. Charles showed himself at the window. All was ready; their visitor had bowed and was gone, the Misses Musgrove 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!”

After the Misses Musgrove have finished their visit at the Cottage, Anne receives the 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 having inflicted any peculiar wound. She had been a girl at school during Anne’s brief engagement, and had never been made acquainted with it.

“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.

“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;[73] 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 shown 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 effects 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 Misses Musgrove 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.”

II.

From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot meet repeatedly in the same circle, and whatever may have become of former feelings, former times are inevitably alluded to in the conversation:—“That was in the year ’six,” “That happened before I went to sea in the year ’six,” he has occasion to say, the very first evening they spend together, and though his voice does not falter, while she has no reason to suppose his eyes wander towards her, she knows what must be in the minds of both.

“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 would 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.”

He is in the foreground, the greatest and best talker present. Anne is in the background, silent, like

“One mute shadow, watching all.”

The pretty, sweet young daughter of Sir Walter Elliot, whom Lieutenant Wentworth must have found a person of some consequence, however unassuming in her disposition, in the old society in which they mingled, appears now an individual of very little moment, though she is civilly treated, of course, even well liked, when he meets her again, in the character of an unmarried sister of Mrs. Charles Musgrove, at Uppercross.

Anne hears Captain Wentworth enlightening the ignorance of the Misses Musgrove as to the manner of living on board ship. “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 without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if there were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use.”

“It was a merry, joyous family party, and no one seemed in higher spirits than Captain Wentworth. She felt that he had everything to elevate him which general attention and deference, and especially the attention of all the young women, could do. The Misses Hayter (belonging to a family of cousins of the Musgroves) 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 are some of the thoughts which occupy Anne while her fingers are mechanically at work. Once she feels he is looking at her, perhaps trying to find some traces of the face which had formerly charmed him. “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 Misses Musgrove an idea of. Unintentionally she returned to that part of the room. He saw her, and instantly rising said, with studied politeness, ‘I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;’ and though she immediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced to sit down again.”

“Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches. His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything.”

Captain Wentworth has come to Kellynch as to a home, to stay as long as he likes. It is soon Uppercross with him every day. There is one other person besides Anne whose peace is likely to be disturbed by this arrangement. Charles Hayter, the eldest of the humble cousins of the Musgroves, had received a college education and taken orders. As the heir of his father’s small property, he is also more on an equality socially with the Musgroves than his brothers and sisters could hope to be. He is an agreeable, amiable young man, and there has been some appearance of an attachment between him and Henrietta Musgrove. “Her parents have not objected. It will not be a great match for Henrietta; but if Henrietta likes him—and Henrietta did like him till Captain Wentworth came, when cousin Charles has been very much forgotten.”

It is at this stage of the proceedings that Charles Hayter returns from a fortnight’s absence to find Captain Wentworth engrossing the attention of the Misses Musgrove, with their interest in their cousin’s prospect of securing a particular curacy eclipsed by more exciting speculations. Even Henrietta has nothing better to spare than a hurried “Well, I am very glad indeed, but I always thought you would have it. In short, you knew Dr. Shirley must have a curate, and you had his promise. Is he coming, Louisa?”—to her sister, who is at a window, looking out for Captain Wentworth.

One morning Captain Wentworth walks into the drawing-room at the Cottage, when there are only Anne and the little invalid Charles, who is 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 Misses Musgrove had been here; Mrs. Musgrove told me I should find them here,’ before he walked to the window to recollect himself, and feel how he ought to behave.”

“They are up stairs with my sister; they will be down in a few moments, I dare say,” had been Anne’s reply, in all the confusion that was natural, and if the child had not called her to come and do something for him she would have been out of the room the next moment, and released Captain Wentworth as well as herself.

“He continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, ‘I hope the little boy is better,’ was silent.”

“She was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy her patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very great satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little vestibule. She hoped on turning her head to see the master of the house, but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters easy—Charles Hayter—probably not at all better pleased by the sight of Captain Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of Anne.”

“She only attempted to say, ‘How do you do? Will you not sit down? The others will be here presently.’”

“Captain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not ill-disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to his attempts by seating himself near the table and taking up the newspaper, and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.”

“Another minute brought another addition. The younger boy, a remarkably stout, forward child of two years old, having got the door opened for him by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and went straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his claim to anything good that might be given away.

“There being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his aunt would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten himself upon her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was about Charles, she could not shake him off. She spoke to him, ordered, entreated, and insisted in vain. Once she did contrive to push him away, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back again directly.

“‘Walter,’ said she, ‘get down this moment. You are extremely troublesome. I am very angry with you.’

“‘Walter,’ cried Charles Hayter, ‘why do you not do as you are bid? Do not you hear your aunt speak? Come to me, Walter; come to cousin Charles.’

“But not a bit did Walter stir.

“In another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being released from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent down her head so much, that his little sturdy arms were unfastened from around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away before she knew that Captain Wentworth had done it.”

She cannot even thank him, she can only hang over little Charles, while the conviction is forced upon her, from the noise which Captain Wentworth is studiously making with the other child, that her thanks and her conversation are the last of his wants, till the entrance of Mary and the Misses Musgrove enables her to leave the room.

Anne Elliot has soon been often enough in the company of Charles Hayter and Captain Wentworth, Henrietta and Louisa Musgrove, to warrant her in forming her own conclusions. Louisa may be rather the favourite with Captain Wentworth, but, as far as Anne dares to judge from memory and experience, he is not in love either with Louisa or Henrietta. “They were more in love with him; yet there, it was not love. It was a little fever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with some. Charles Hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta had sometimes the air of being divided between them.”

After a short struggle, Charles Hayter appears to quit the field. Three days have passed without his coming to Uppercross. He has even refused one regular invitation to dinner, and Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove chancing to see their nephew with some big books before him, talk with a grave face of his studying himself to death.

The sisters from the Great House call one day, when Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth have gone out shooting together, for the sisters at the Cottage as they are sitting quietly at work. It is a fine November day, and the Misses Musgrove have only come in, according to the inconvenient habit of the two families which makes it necessary to do everything in common, just as they are setting out for a long walk, in which, they suppose Mary will not care to join them.

Mary, who generally gives herself out as half an invalid, resents the imputation on her walking powers, and declares she would like to accompany her sisters-in-law; she is very fond of a long walk.

Anne sees the glances of annoyance which pass between the girls, and does her best to keep her sister at home. When she cannot prevail, as the next best thing she accepts the Misses Musgrove’s invitation to go also, that she may be useful in turning back with her sister.

At the moment of starting the gentlemen return. They had taken out a young dog which had spoilt their sport. They are exactly ready for this walk.

After the walking party have gone some distance, Anne is tempted to say, “Is not this one of the ways to Winthrop?” (the Hayters’ place), but nobody hears, or, at least, nobody answers her, till Winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, is stretched before them, an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and buildings of a farmyard.

Mary exclaims, “Bless me! here is Winthrop, I declare; I had no idea!” then announces herself excessively tired, and proposes turning back. Henrietta, conscious and ashamed, seeing no cousin Charles walking along any path, or leaning against any gate, is ready to do as Mary wishes; but “No!” says Charles Musgrove, and “No, no!” cries Louisa, still more energetically, and taking her sister aside, seems to remonstrate with her warmly. Charles declares his intention of calling on his aunt when he is so near, and tries to induce his wife to go too. But the lady is unmanageable. The difficulty is settled between the brother and sisters: Charles and Henrietta are to run down for a few moments to see their aunt and cousins, while the rest of the party wait for them at the top of the hill.

Mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the step of a stile, is very well satisfied so long as the others stand about her, but when Louisa draws Captain Wentworth away, to try for a gleaning of nuts in an adjoining hedgerow, and they go by degrees out of sight and sound, Mary is happy no longer. She is sure Louisa has got a better seat, and follows without finding her. Anne sees another nice seat for her sister, on a sunny bank under the hedgerow, but Mary quarrels with that also, and leaves Anne in possession. Anne is really tired, and sits on till she hears Captain Wentworth and Louisa in the hedgerow behind her, as if making their way back in the rough, wild sort of channel down the centre.

“Louisa’s first audible words showed that she was confiding to Captain Wentworth the secret of the walk, so far as it concerned herself and her sister, with a good deal more of the family history which explained the secret. “And so I made her go,” Anne heard Louisa say. “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 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?””

“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,” exclaimed Captain Wentworth, hastily. “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.” He dwells emphatically on the importance of firmness in all the relations of life, and winds up with the declaration: “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, Louisa spoke again.”

“Mary is good-natured enough in many respects,” said she; “but she does sometimes provoke me excessively with 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. 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.”

This was a travesty of the real state of matters with a vengeance; and there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity about her in Captain Wentworth’s manner which must give Anne extreme agitation and keep her rooted to the spot, though she heard no more.

As soon as she could she went after Mary, and it is a relief when all the party are again collected, with the addition of Charles Hayter, whom Charles Musgrove and Henrietta brought back with them as might have been conjectured. There had been a withdrawing on the gentleman’s side, a relenting on the lady’s, and they are very glad to be together again. Henrietta looks a little ashamed but very well pleased, Charles Hayter exceedingly happy, and they are devoted to each other on their way back to Uppercross.

Everything now marks out Louisa for Captain Wentworth, and they walk side by side nearly as much as the other two. The party are thus separated into three divisions, with Anne tired enough to be very glad of Charles Musgrove’s disengaged arm. “But Charles, though in very good humour with her, was out of temper with his wife. Mary had shown herself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence, which consequence was his dropping her arm almost every moment to cut off the heads of some nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when Mary began to complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according to custom, in being on the hedge-side, while Anne was never incommoded on the other, he dropped the arms of both, to hunt after a weasel which he had a momentary glimpse of, and they could hardly get him along at all.” This boyish mode of expressing a pet is exquisitely characteristic of the ordinarily easy-going young fellow.

“The 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 Misses Musgrove were not 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?’

“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, 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. He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. 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.”

III.

Captain Wentworth learns that there is an old mess-mate with his family settled for the winter at Lyme. He goes to visit them, and comes back with such a glowing description of the beautiful neighbourhood that the young people at Uppercross are all eager to see it. Although it is so late in the season, a party is made up, consisting of Charles Musgrove, Mary, Anne, Henrietta, Louisa, and Captain Wentworth, to drive to Lyme, stay the night there, and come back for next day’s dinner. It is in connection with Lyme that we have Jane Austen’s most finished bit of descriptive landscape-painting. Full of appreciation as it reads, it is sober and restrained indeed, contrasted with modern word-painting of sea and shore and sky. “The remarkable situation of the town, the principal street almost hurrying into the water, the walk to the Cobbe skirting round the pleasant little bay, which in the season is animated with bathing machines and company; the Cobbe 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, Pinney, 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 again and again to make the worth of Lyme understood.”

Not only Captain Harville, Captain Wentworth’s friend, and his wife are brought by Captain Wentworth to be introduced to his companions; Captain Benwick, another old friend, accompanies the others. Captain Benwick has a sad little history which renders him especially interesting. He had been engaged to Captain Harville’s sister, and is still 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 did not live to know it. She had died the preceding summer when he was at sea.”

“And yet,” said Anne to herself, “he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have.”

Captain Harville, who looks sensible and benevolent, is delicate and lame. Captain Benwick has a pleasing face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have. Mrs. Harville shows the same good feeling as her husband, and nothing can be more pleasant than their desire to consider the whole party as friends of their own.

Captains Harville and Benwick pay a visit to the inn in the evening. Captain Benwick’s spirits do not seem fit for the mirth of the party, and Anne kindly talks to him of their favourite books.

Anne and Henrietta, the earliest risers next morning, agree to take a stroll down to the sea before breakfast. Captain Wentworth and Louisa come after the two others. As they are all returning to town, at the steps leading up from the beach, a gentleman about to descend, politely draws back and waits. As they pass him Anne’s face catches his eye, and he looks at her with evident admiration. “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 produced. It was evident that the gentleman (completely a gentleman in manners) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which showed his noticing 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 the party have returned to the inn, Anne, in passing quickly from her own room to the dining-room, had nearly run against the same gentleman as he came out of an adjoining apartment. “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; 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 waiter came into the room soon afterwards.

“‘Pray,’ said Captain Wentworth, immediately, ‘can you tell us the name of the gentleman who has just gone away?’

“‘Yes, sir, a Mr. Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth, and going on now for Crewkerne, on his way to Bath and London.’

“‘Elliot!’ Many had looked at 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 same inn with us, Anne; must not it be our Mr. Elliot, my father’s next heir? Pray, sir,’ turning to the waiter, ‘did not you hear—did not his servant say—whether he belonged to the Kellynch family?’

“‘No, ma’am; he did not mention no particular family; but he said his master was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight, some day.’

“‘There, you see,’ cried Mary, in an 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 panel, and hid the arms—so it did; otherwise, I am sure I should have observed them, and the livery, too. If the servant had not been in mourning, one should have known him by the livery.’

“‘Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together,’ said Captain Wentworth, ‘we must consider it to be the arrangement of Providence that you should not be introduced to your cousin.’”

Though Anne tries to quiet Mary by reminding her of the terms on which her father is with his heir, still it is a secret gratification to have seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch is undoubtedly a gentleman, and has an air of good sense.

Breakfast over, Captain and Mrs. Harville, with Captain Benwick, arrive to join the visitors in their last walk about Lyme.

Captain Harville says aside to Anne that she has done a good deed in making that “poor fellow,” Captain Benwick, talk so much.

Anne reminds him gently of what time does in every case of affliction, and remarks that Captain Benwick’s is still of a recent date, only last summer.

“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 be 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 risk; 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 Elliott, whether he is dear to us!”

The pleasure-seekers part with the Harvilles at their own door, and turn at the special request of Louisa Musgrove, with only Captain Benwick attending them to the last, to walk along the Cobbe once more, before setting out for Uppercross.

“There was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobbe pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and all were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight excepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth. In all their walks he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation was delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however, she was safely down, and instantly to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, ‘I am determined I will;’ he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobbe, 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 that 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 immovable; 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;[74] take them, take them!’”

Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him, and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed, in the bitterest agony, “Oh, God! her father and mother!”

“A surgeon!” said Anne. He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only, “True, true, a surgeon this instant,” was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested—

“Captain Benwick! would it not 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, and 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 agitation 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.[75]

“‘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 she not 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.’”

The Harvilles meet the melancholy cavalcade, and Louisa is carried to their house instead of to the inn. A surgeon pronounces that her limbs have escaped, and though there is concussion of the brain, the case is not by any means hopeless.

In the end, Captain Wentworth, Henrietta Musgrove, and Anne return to Uppercross to break the news of the accident to the old Musgroves, while Charles and Mary remain with the sufferer.

“It was growing quite dusk, however, before the travellers 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.”

Anne only remains two days longer at Uppercross with the Musgroves. The accounts which Charles Musgrove brings of Louisa are favourable on the whole. A speedy cure cannot be looked for, but she is going on as well as can be expected. The Harvilles are kindness itself.

Anne persuades Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove and Henrietta to join the others by going into lodgings at Lyme. They can at least be of use by taking care of the Harville children. “They were so happy in the decision that Anne was delighted with what she had done, and felt that she could not spend her last morning at Uppercross better, than in assisting their preparations and sending them off at an early hour, though her being left to the solitary range of the house was the consequence.

“She was the last, excepting the little boys, at the Cottage; she was the very last, the only remaining one of all that had filled and animated both houses, of all that had given Uppercross its cheerful character. A few days had made a change indeed.

“If Louisa recovered, it would all be the same, 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 rooms now 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.”

I think my readers will endorse the cordial praise bestowed by Captain Harville on Anne at a later part of the story: “good soul!” The simple words may be lightly esteemed, as they are frequently bestowed indiscriminately and contemptuously—and what a lowered standard of morality the contempt involves—but how much they imply. Good, true, courageous, christian Anne Elliot, true to herself, to Captain Wentworth, to Louisa Musgrove, to every living creature! Anne Elliot is worth scores—hundreds—of the outrageous, reckless, self-indulgent, and idiotic heroines frequently held up for admiration and imitation.

IV.

At Kellynch Lodge, with Lady Russell, Anne has to fall into a new, or rather an old set of interests, in which the house her father has taken in Camden Place, Bath, and the disagreeable fact that Mrs. Clay, the daughter of Sir Walter Elliott’s agent, and a humble companion of Elizabeth, is still on a visit there, figure prominently; while Anne’s thoughts are still hovering, in spite of herself, about Lyme and her friends there.

Elizabeth Elliott’s last letter to Kellynch Lodge has communicated an unexpected piece of news of some interest. There has been a reconciliation between the head of the house and his heir. Mr. Elliot is in Bath, and has called more than once or twice in Camden Place. If Elizabeth and her father are right, he is now as anxious to renew and proclaim the connexion as he had formerly been to treat it with scorn.

A degree of unlooked-for warmth in the welcome home which Anne receives does her good, but Jane Austen is careful to mention that Anne’s father and sister are glad to see her for the sake of showing her the house and furniture. Besides, they are unwontedly happy in finding themselves people of consequence in Bath, and in receiving once more the attentions of Mr. Elliot. He is now everything and without a fault in his cousins’ eyes. Even the old offence of his marriage—when Sir Walter had destined him for Elizabeth, and Elizabeth had fully acquiesced in the arrangement—has been partly smoothed away. A friend of Mr. Elliot’s, a Colonel Wallis, whom Mr. Elliot has introduced to Sir Walter, mentions in confidence various particulars which soften the delinquency. The late Mrs. Elliot had not been a woman of family, but she had been a very fine woman, with a large fortune, excessively in love with her husband.

Anne is rendered very uneasy by Mrs. Clay’s protracted stay in Camden Place, and by the increasing influence she is gaining over her host as well as over his eldest daughter. That Mrs. Clay cherishes designs of becoming Lady Elliot, opposed as the match might seem to Sir Walter’s vanity and conceit, Anne does not doubt, and she begins to fear more and more that Mrs. Clay’s designs may prove successful. How relentlessly Anne is made to gauge her father’s character is shown by the impetus given to her fears, in the course of a conversation with him. He has just complimented Anne on her greater clearness and freshness of complexion, and attributed the improvement to Gowland’s Lotion. On her saying she uses no lotion, he expresses his surprise. She cannot do better than she is doing, otherwise he would recommend Gowland—the constant use of Gowland during the spring. Mrs. Clay has been using it at his recommendation, and Anne can see what it has done for her; Anne can see how it has carried away her freckles.

The most alarming symptom of all is, that it does not appear to Anne Mrs. Clay’s freckles are lessened.

But there is no use in warning Elizabeth, without whose countenance Mrs. Clay could not stay on in Camden Place. Mrs. Clay’s flattery infatuates Elizabeth, and in any circumstances she would have been incapable of accepting beforehand a suggestion so injurious and disagreeable to her, especially if it came from her sister Anne.

Lady Russell is quite won by Mr. Elliot, whose steadiness of character and coolness of judgment, in addition to what she believes to be his high principles and warmth of heart, unite all the recommendations which she prizes most highly. She is delighted to find that his previous marriage—suspected to have been an unhappy one—has not soured him, or prevented him from thinking of another wife—not in the person of Elizabeth, but in that of Anne Elliot, as is soon plain to Lady Russell. She rejoices to believe that Anne is at last done justice to, in becoming the object of Mr. Elliot’s constant presence in Camden Place. Anne, in her turn, allows herself to be more and more pleased with her cousin’s good qualities and friendship, although she still retains doubts of the consistency of his sentiments and behaviour, and of the motives which actuate him.

V.

A grand triumph is provided for Sir Walter and his eldest daughter, which in the meantime may happily prove a distraction and protection to the former from the arts of Mrs. Clay. “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.”

The feat is accomplished, and the Elliots visit in Laura Place, where the Dowager Viscountess has established herself. They have the cards of the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple and the Honourable Miss Carteret to be arranged wherever they may be most visible, and “our cousins in Laura Place,” “our cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret,” are talked of to everybody.

While Sir Walter and Elizabeth Elliot are sedulously cultivating their noble cousins, Anne, in broad contrast to her father and sister, is gladly renewing her acquaintance with an old schoolfellow whom she discovers in Bath in reduced circumstances: Mrs. Smith, as Miss Hamilton, had been kind to Anne Elliot, and now it is Anne’s turn to repay the kindness. Mrs. Smith is a widow, and poor. She is also for the present a complete cripple from the effects of rheumatic fever, though she is not more than thirty-one years of age. She has come to Bath on account of her lameness, and is living in a humble way near the hot baths. A mutual friend makes Anne acquainted with the position of her former schoolfellow. The first meeting is awkward and painful. Twelve years have changed Anne from the blooming, silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of eight-and-twenty; and twelve years have transformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow of health and confidence of prosperity, into a poor, infirm, helpless widow.

But soon the old interest which the girl-friends had felt in each other, revives. Anne finds Mrs. Smith sensible and agreeable, and has reason to admire in her “that elasticity of spirit, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employment out of herself, which is the choicest gift of Heaven.”[76]

It is February, a month since Anne had come to Bath. She is eager for news from Uppercross, when a thicker letter than usual is delivered to her from Mary, with Admiral and Mrs. Croft’s compliments. The Crofts must be in Bath.

Mary begins in her usual strain, with many grievances, congratulating herself, however, that the holidays are over. She believes no children ever had such long holidays as the young Musgroves have. The carriage has gone that day to bring Louisa and the Harvilles on the following day. Charles and Mary are not invited to dine with them, however, till the day after, and so on, to the close. But Mary has put the letter into an envelope containing as much more writing, which like the typical postscript is the cream of the epistle:—“I have something to communicate that will astonish you not a little. She (Louisa) and the Harvilles came on Tuesday very safely, and in the evening we went to ask 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 you not astonished? I shall be surprised at least if you ever received a hint of it, for I never did. Mrs. Musgrove protests solemnly that she knew nothing of the matter. We are all very well pleased, however; for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain Wentworth, it is infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr. Musgrove has written his consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day. Mrs. Harville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister’s account; but, however, Louisa is a great favourite with both. Indeed, Mrs. Harville and I quite agree that we love her the better for having nursed her. Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but if you remember I never thought him attached to Louisa; I never could see anything of it. And this is the end, you see, of Captain Benwick’s being supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles could take such a thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me. I hope he will be more agreeable now. Certainly not a great match for Louisa Musgrove, but a million times better than marrying amongst 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 endure the common questions of the moment.”

“In her own room she tried to comprehend it. Well might Charles wonder how Captain Wentworth would feel! Perhaps he had quitted the field, had given Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her. She could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin to ill-usage between him and his friend.”

“Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! The high-spirited, joyous, talking Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading Captain Benwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other. Their minds must be 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.

“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 have to be an enthusiast for Scott and Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already: of course they had fallen in love over poetry. The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned into a person of literary taste and sentimental reflection was amusing, but she had no doubt of its being so. The day at Lyme, the fall from the Cobbe, 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.”[77]

VI.

Captain Wentworth is on his way to Bath, and the very next time Anne walks out she meets 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, 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; 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, 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. Captain Wentworth must be out of sight. 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 she was betraying the least sensibility of the two. She had the advantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments. All the overpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise were over with her; still, however, she had enough to feel. It was agitation, pain, pleasure—a something between delight and misery.

“He spoke to her, and then turned away. The character of his manner was embarrassment. She could not have called it either cold, or friendly, or anything so certainly as embarrassed.

“After a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again. Mutual inquiries on common subjects passed, neither of them 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 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 either 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, ‘Although 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 manners of the privileged relation and friend. He came in with eagerness, and 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 and Captain Wentworth’s party began talking of them.

“‘Mr. Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy.’

“‘Oh, no! that is clear enough. One can guess what will happen there. He is always with them; half lives in the family, I believe. What a very good-looking man!’

“‘Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once at the Wallises, says he is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with.’

“‘She is pretty, I think, Anne Elliott, 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.’”

A day or two passes without further encounters. Anne longs for a concert patronised by Lady Dalrymple. “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 inquiries in return, in spite of the formidable father and sister in the background.

“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 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 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 the 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 honourable and kindly, only anxious with true parental heart 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 I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity, and in a point no less essential than mind. I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding; but Benwick is something more. He is a clever man, a reading man; and I confess that I do consider his attaching himself to her with some surprise. Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her because he believed her to be preferring him,[78] 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 a hundred things in a moment.”

The entrance-door opens again, and “Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple!” is the welcome sound. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr. Elliot and Colonel Wallis, advance into the room. Anne is included in the group and separated from Captain Wentworth. But she has learnt in the last ten minutes more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his feelings, than she dares to think of.

Upon Lady Russell’s appearance, the whole party proceed to go 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 can.

“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; the happiness was from within. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed, but she knew nothing about 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 fresh, strong attachment, sentences begun which he could not finish, his half-averted eyes, and more than half-expressive glances—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! He must love her.”

Anne Elliot is from first to last full of delicate self-respect and retiring womanliness, yet Jane Austen makes her as incapable of resentful obduracy to Captain Wentworth’s tardy relenting, as of coquettish trifling with his revived affection. Anne is eager and willing to meet his overtures half way, and relieve him of the awkwardness of making them unsupported. To see her manner quite in the right light, one must remember what she owed him, for the wrong which she had done to both when she gave him up in the past. Her present free forgiveness of his recent avoidance and neglect hardly balances her renunciation of him eight years before.

“The party were divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne was among those on the foremost, and Mr. Elliot had manœuvred so well, with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by her. Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object of Colonel Wallis’s gallantry, was quite contented.”

Anne has never liked a concert better—at least, during the first act. Towards the close of it, the necessity of explaining the words of an Italian song[79] to Mr. Elliot, brings down upon her rather too many gallant compliments from the gentleman. In the course of his praise, he manages to rouse her curiosity by hinting that he may have had longer acquaintance with her tastes and pursuits than she is aware of. In answer to her questions, he assures her that he has known her by report, long before she came to Bath. He has heard her described by one who knew her intimately. Her person, disposition, accomplishments, manner, were all familiar to him many years before.

Jane Austen remarks with great truth that 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. She wondered and questioned him eagerly, but in vain. He delighted in being asked, but he would not tell.”

Anne can only think of Mr. Wentworth, the former curate of Monksford, in whose company Mr. Elliot may have been, but she does not mention the name.

“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.”

Before Anne can attempt an answer, she catches the name of Wentworth mentioned by her father in answer to an observation of Lady Dalrymple’s: and from the lady, “A very fine young man, indeed. More air than one often sees in Bath. Irish, I dare say?”

“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 upon him, his seemed to be withdrawn from her.

“When she could give another glance, he had moved away. He could not have come nearer to her if he would, she was so surrounded and shut in, but she would rather have caught his eye.

“Mr. Elliot’s speech, too, distressed her. She had no longer any inclination to talk to him. She wished him not so near her.

“The first act was over. Now she hoped for some beneficial change; and after a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did decide on going in quest of tea. Anne was one of the few who did not choose to move. She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell, but she had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr. Elliot; and she did not mean, whatever she might feel on Lady Russell’s account, to shrink from conversation with Captain Wentworth if he gave her opportunity. She was persuaded by Lady Russell’s countenance that she had seen him.

“He did not come, however. The others returned, the room filled again, benches were re-claimed, and re-possessed.

“In re-settling themselves there were 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 the reach of a passer-by. She could not do so without comparing herself with Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles;[80] but still, she did it, and not with much happier effect, though 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 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 begun by speaking of the concert gravely, more like the Captain Wentworth of Uppercross; owned himself disappointed; had expected better singing; and, in short, must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over. Anne replied, and spoke of the performance so well, 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 her 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 the song worth staying for?’ said Anne, suddenly struck by an idea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging.

“‘No!’ he replied, impressively; ‘there is nothing worth my staying for;’ and he was gone directly.

“‘Jealousy of Mr. Elliot.’ It was the only intelligible motive.”

During a call made on her old friend, Mrs. Smith, Anne is enlightened beyond the power of doubt with regard to her cousin, Mr. Elliot’s, unprincipled and heartless character. He was an old friend of the Smiths, and had long ago heard a great deal from Mrs. Smith about Anne Elliot. He helped to ruin Mr. Smith. He forsook the widow in her desolation. He has come to Bath for the purpose of preventing Sir Walter Elliot’s marriage to Mrs. Clay, with the probable loss of his own succession to the baronetcy. His admiration for Anne induces Mr. Elliot to propose to give himself the right of a son-in-law to hinder the consummation of her father’s folly.

Anne can only shudder at what might have been the possibility of such a marriage for her.

VII. [81]

Anne is just setting out for Lady Russell’s when a knock at the door announces visitors, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Musgrove are ushered into the room.

Anne is really glad to see them, and the others are not so sorry that they cannot put on a decent air of welcome, considerably increased when it is clear that these their nearest relatives have not arrived with any idea of accommodation in that house.

The young Musgroves are staying for a few days at the “White Hart” with old Mrs. Musgrove, Henrietta, and Captain Harville. The last has business of his own in Bath. Mrs. Musgrove and Henrietta are already come to buy wedding clothes. It was not then incumbent on every bride, in the rank of Henrietta and Louisa Musgrove, to have her trousseau from London and Paris. Such a place as Bath was sufficient for the requirements of all Somersetshire in that respect.

Anne walks off directly with Charles and Mary to their mother and sister. The enlightenment of Lady Russell is of necessity left for another day. Mr. Elliot’s character has a reprieve of twenty-four hours.

Anne finds herself warmly greeted, even affectionately claimed to be with them during their stay, by Mrs. Musgrove and Henrietta, and falls naturally into her wonted ways of attention and assistance. “On Charles leaving them together, Anne 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 she was not ill-used by anybody; while Mary, well amused as she generally was in her station at a window overlooking the entrance to the Pump-room, could not but have her moments of imagining.

“A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected. A large party in an hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene. One five minutes brought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an hour when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed 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.

“‘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. 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 further.

“‘Do come, Anne,’ cried Mary—‘come and look yourself. You will be too late if you do not make haste. They are parting—they are shaking hands—he is turning away. Not know Mr. Elliot, indeed! You seem to have forgot all about Lyme.’

“To pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, Anne did move quietly to the window. She was just in time to ascertain that it really was Mr. Elliot 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,’ and walked back to her chair recomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself well.

“Captain Wentworth left his seat and walked to the fire-place, probably for the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a station, with less 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 if it were the result of immediate feeling, ‘It is a period, indeed! Eight years and a half is a period.’

“Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne’s imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to get 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 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 are stopped short; the door is thrown open for Sir Walter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seems to cause a general chill.

Anne is satisfied with regard to one particular: Captain Wentworth is acknowledged again by each.

Elizabeth is revolving a great measure. She gives her invitations “To-morrow evening, to meet a few friends; no formal party;” and puts down her cards with “Miss Elliot at home,” and a courteous, comprehensive smile for all, and one smile and one card decidedly for Captain Wentworth. Elizabeth has been long enough in Bath to understand the importance in society of a man of such an air and appearance. The cards given, Sir Walter and Elizabeth rise and disappear.

Captain Wentworth has received the card with no more than a polite acknowledgment. Anne cannot think that he will accept such an offering as an atonement for the insolence of the past. He holds the card in his hand as if considering.

“‘Only think of Elizabeth’s including everybody,’ whispers Mary audibly. ‘I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted. He cannot put the card out of his hand.’”

Anne catches his eye, sees his cheeks glow and his mouth form itself into an expression of contempt, and turns away that she may see no more.

The party separates—Anne going with the ladies. She is begged to return and dine, but her spirits have been too long exerted, she is only fit for home. She promises to be with her friends the whole of the following morning, and closes the fatigues of the day by a toilsome walk to Camden Place.

Anne rouses herself from the never-ending self-questioning, “Will Captain Wentworth come or not?” to let Mrs. Clay know she has been seen with Mr. Elliot three hours after his being supposed to have left Bath. It seems to Anne there is guilt in Mrs. Clay’s face, but the expression clears instantly. “Oh, dear! very true,” exclaims Mrs. Clay. “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 Thornbury. He wanted to know how early he might be admitted to-morrow. He was full of ‘to-morrow.’”

VIII.

One day only has passed since Anne’s conversation with Mrs. Smith, but a keener interest has intervened; she must still defer her visit to Lady Russell. She cannot keep her appointment punctually, however; she is detained by rain. When she reaches the “White Hart” she finds herself neither quite in time, nor the first to arrive.

“The party before her were Mrs. Musgrove talking to Mrs. Croft, and Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth; and she immediately heard that Mary and Henrietta, too impatient to wait, had gone out the moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon, and that the strictest injunctions had been left with Mrs. Musgrove to keep her there till they returned. She had only to submit, and feel herself plunged at once in all the agitation of which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little before the morning closed. There was no delay, no waste of time. She was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such happiness, instantly. Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain Wentworth said, ‘We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you will give me materials.’

“Materials were all at hand on a separate table; he went to it, and merely turning his back on them all, was engrossed with 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 in a whisper.” The mother finishes with the assertion, “At any rate,” said I, “it will be better than a long engagement.”

Mrs. Croft chimes in heartily. She would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement.

“Oh, dear, Mrs. Croft,” cried Mrs. Musgrove, unable to let her finish her speech, “there is nothing I so abominate as a long engagement. It is what I always protested against for my children,” with more strong objections to the same effect from both ladies.

Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt it in 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.

Captain Harville, who has been hearing nothing, invites Anne to join 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. ‘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.’”

He tells her he has been commissioned to get the miniature, which was painted for his sister, re-set for Louisa Musgrove. Anne, while entering into his feelings, so far vindicates Captain Benwick, by asserting the superior fidelity of women. “Oh!” cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, “if I could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, ‘God knows whether we shall 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 twelve-month’s absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into another port, he calculates how soon it may 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.

“‘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 women. No, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as—if I may be allowed the expression—so long as you have an object: I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one, you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.’

“She could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed.

“‘You are a good soul!’ cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her arm quite affectionately. ‘There is no quarrelling with you. And when I think of Benwick, my tongue is tied.’

“Their attention was called towards the others. Mrs. Croft was taking leave.

“‘Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe,’ said she. ‘I am going home, and you have an engagement with your friend. To-night we may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party,’ turning to Anne. ‘We had your sister’s card yesterday, and I understood Frederick had a card, too, though I did not see it; and you are disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?’

“Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not, or would not, answer fully.

“‘Yes,’ said he, ‘very true. Here we separate; but Harville and I shall soon be after you, that is, Harville, if you are ready—I am, in half a minute. I know you will not be sorry to be off.’

“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 showed 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 entering; 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 papers, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs. Musgrove was aware of his being in it; the work of an instant!

“The revolution which one instant had made in Anne was almost beyond expression. The letter, with a direction hardly legible, ‘To Miss A. E——’ was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick he had been also addressing her! On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her! Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense. Mrs. Musgrove had little arrangements of her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words:—

“‘I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again, with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death! I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most permanent, 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.’”[82]

Such a letter is not soon to be recovered from. Anne has to plead illness, and is forced to accept her brother-in-law’s escort home.

“They were in Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments’ preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them, but as if irresolute whether to join or 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 it is a good deal like the second-sized double-barrel of mine which you shot with one day round Winthrop.’[83]

“There could be no objection. There could only be 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 it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future life could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other’s character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around them, all the little variations of the last week were gone through, and of yesterday and to-day there could scarcely be an end.

“At last Anne was at home again, happier than any one in that house could have conceived.

“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 had met too often; a commonplace business, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne had never found an evening shorter. Glowing and lovely in sensibility and happiness, and more generally admired than she thought about or cared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature around her; with Captain Wentworth some moments of communication constantly 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 told him, with that candour and fairness to herself and everybody which no passion, and no submission to his influence could warp:

“‘I have been thinking over the past, and I must believe that I am right, much as I suffered from it, in being guided by the friend who to me was in the place of a parent. Do not mistake me, however. I am not saying she did not err in her advice. I mean I was right in submitting to it; and if I mistake not, a strong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman’s portion.’[84]

“He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her, replied as if in cool deliberation, ‘Not yet. But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time. 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,[85] 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.

“‘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. Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared. 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 learn to brook being happier than I deserve.’”

“Who can doubt what followed?” Jane Austen begins the last chapter. 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 a nobody.

Among other results of the marriage, Lady Russell learnt to like the man who made Anne Elliot happy. Captain Wentworth became the cordial and helpful friend of Mrs. Smith. Mr. Elliot, who had been playing a deep game, withdrew from Bath, and caused Mrs. Clay to withdraw also. She gave up Sir Walter, for the sake of his heir. It remained doubtful whether her cunning was not more than a match for his, and whether, in losing the chance of becoming the wife of Sir Walter, she might not wheedle the future Sir William into raising her into the position of Lady Elliot.

It would be impertinent to add a word of praise to a novel which—while it is often as penetrating and unerring in discussing the motives, and as richly humorous in dealing with the absurdities and follies of human nature as “Pride and Prejudice” and “Northanger Abbey”—has a gentle grace and a pathetic feeling all its own, so far as Jane Austen’s novels are concerned. The last warm words of praise to the gallant profession to which two of her brothers belonged, is another testimony to her keen family sympathies, as well as to her quick, womanly response to all that was patriotic and heroic.

Footnotes:

[70] Written in 1816, and published after the Author’s death.

[71] If Jane Austen’s high standing as an artist is granted, what becomes of the heathen saying that “Art has no moral?” Was she simply great in spite of her morals? Again, how shall we dispose of the scornful criticism, which treats the details of domestic life in a novel as twaddle? Jane Austen and twaddle are as far apart as Jane Austen and bombast.

[72] A young Musgrove who had been in the navy, and died abroad.

[73] Anne Elliot’s pathetic position is unique, so far as I know, in the literature of Jane Austen’s day. The contrast of her faded face and subdued spirit with Henrietta and Louisa Musgrove’s fresh bloom and unchecked joyousness, would not be attempted in our day, with the same object in view, by an author who put a supreme value on material advantages, and extolled the attractions of youth beyond all other attractions. No such author—above all in a semi-cynical, semi-sensuous generation—could have anticipated, far less projected, the end of “Persuasion.”

[74] In those days no lady was to be found without her small bottle of “smelling salts” or her vinaigrette with aromatic vinegar. Have we fewer headaches now-a-days, or are we more patient in bearing them?

[75] The manner in which the set-aside, quiet woman, who has yet so much more strength and power of resource than the others, comes to the front, whether she will or no, in the moment of trouble, is fine and true to nature.

[76] The perfect simplicity, unaffectedness, and absence of self-consciousness—including any consciousness of merit, displayed in Anne’s kindness to her former companion, is very refreshing, after those ostentatious representations of doing good, and of making private stock out of public benevolence, which we are constantly encountering both in real life and in books.

[77] The sudden bestowal of Louisa Musgrove and Captain Benwick on each other is one of the most genuine and delightful surprises of fiction. It is not only a triumphant testimony to how the whole destiny, not merely of one person, but of a group of persons, may be altered by what seems the simplest accident—the turning of a straw; it is one of those bits of warm, homely, human inconsistency which baffle all anticipation, are worth a hundred bloodless, laboured, logical sequences, but can only be fitly conceived and carried out in a story, by a great artist.

[78] A hint of defence for what might have been his own case.

[79] A familiarity with Italian used to be considered the graceful crown of a woman’s accomplishments.

[80] The “rattle” of Madame D’Arblay’s novel of “Cecilia.”

[81] The two capital chapters, of which the substance is now to be given, were written by Jane Austen to supersede a cancelled chapter in “Persuasion,” withdrawn after she had finished the story.

[82] The renewal of the good understanding between Anne and Captain Wentworth was contrived in the cancelled chapter of the story, with much less spirit and feeling—as Jane Austen herself judged rightly—by an accidental interview between the lovers in the Crofts’ lodgings; in the course of which Admiral Croft unsuspiciously imposes on his brother-in-law the trying task of conveying to Anne, Admiral and Mrs. Croft’s friendly desire not to stand in the way of the arrangements of Mr. Elliot and his cousin on their marriage; on the contrary, the Crofts offer to vacate Kellynch to them if they wish it.

[83] In the intense sense of reality which all Jane Austen’s stories give us, we are prompted here to go beyond what the author has chosen to tell us, and speculate how the Musgroves, great and small, received the news—not merely of Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot’s engagement, but what they were sure to hear also, sooner or later, that it was the end of an old attachment, utterly unsuspected by all their friends at Uppercross. Would the Musgroves in their good nature content themselves with thinking the couple had kept their secret well, or would there be a general, slightly indignant sense of having been taken in and humbugged, like, in its degree, to that which Emma Woodhouse experienced when she learnt the long-standing engagement between Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax?

[84] No, indeed, it is her chief treasure.

[85] These were the very different days of frequent naval engagements and much prize money.

Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co., Belle Sauvage Works, London, E.C.