 CHAPTER XXI Sir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs. Clay, were the earliest of all their party at the rooms in the evening, and as Lady Dolrymple 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. Where being in the background was a support to Anne, she knew nothing of their looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed right to be done. While they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth caught her ear. She could not distinguish, but she must guess the subject, and on Captain Wentworth's making a distant bow, she comprehended that her father had judged so well as to give him that simple acknowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a side glance to see a slight curtsy 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 Lime. I am afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and them all from its not overpowering you at the time." She assured him that she had not. It was a frightful hour, said he, a frightful day. And he passed his hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful, but in a moment half-smiling again added. The day has produced some effects, however, has had some consequences which must be considered as the very reverse of frightful. When you had the presence of mind to suggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon, you could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most concerned in her recovery. Certainly, I could have none, but it appears, I should hope it would be a very happy match. There are on both sides good principles and good temper. Yes, said he, looking not exactly forward. But there, I think, ends the resemblance. With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over every circumstance in favour of it. They have no difficulties to contend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays. The Musgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly, only anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter's comfort. All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness, more than perhaps— He stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him some taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne's cheeks and fixing her eyes on the ground. After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded thus. I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity, and in a point no less essential than mind. I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding, but Benwick is something more. He is a clever man, a reading man, and I confess that I do consider his attaching himself to her with some surprise. Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it would have been another thing. But I have no reason to suppose it so. It seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me. A man like him, in his situation, with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken. Fanny Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was indeed attachment. A man does not recover from such devotion of the heart to such a woman. He ought not. He does not. Either from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered, or from other consciousness, he went no farther. And Anne, who, in spite of the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in spite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam of the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had distinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused, and beginning to breathe very quick, and feel in hundred things in a moment. It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject. And yet, after a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the smallest wish for total change, she only deviated so far as to say, You were a good wire that lyme, I think. About a fortnight. I could not leave it till Louise's doing well was quite ascertained. I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to be soon at peace. It had been my doing, solely mine. She would not have been obstinate if I had not been weak. The country round lyme is very fine. I walked and rode a good deal, and the more I saw, the more I found to admire. I should very much like to see lyme again," said Anne. Indeed, I should not have supposed that you could have found anything in lyme to inspire such a feeling, the horror and distress you were involved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits. I should have thought your last impressions of lyme must have been strong discussed. The last hours was certainly very painful, replied Anne. But when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at lyme. We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment, so much novelty and beauty. I have travelled so little that every fresh place would be interesting to me, but there is real beauty in lyme, and in short, with a faint blush at some recollections, altogether my impressions of the place are very agreeable. As she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party appeared for whom they were waiting. Lady de Rimpel, Lady de Rimpel, was the rejoicing sound, and with all the eagerness compatible with anxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet her. Lady de Rimpel and Miss Carteray, escorted by Mr. Elliott and Colonel Wallace, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant, advanced into the room. The others joined them, and it was a group in which Anne found herself also necessarily included. She was divided from Captain Wentworth. Their interesting—almost too interesting—conversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance compared with the happiness which brought it on. She had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his feelings than she had dared to think of, and she gave herself up to the demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with exquisite, though agitated sensations. She was in good humour with all. She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and kind to all, and to pity everyone, as being less happy than herself. The delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back from the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that he was gone. She was just in time to see him turn into the concert room. He was gone, he had disappeared, she felt a moment's regret. But they should meet again. He would look for her, he would find her out before the evening or over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well to be asunder. She was in need of a little interval for recollection. Upon Lady Russell's appearance, soon afterwards, the whole party was collected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed into the concert room, and be of all the consequence in their power, draw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people as they could. Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in. Elizabeth, arm in arm with Miss Carter Ray, and looking on the broad back of the Dowager Viscount Estelle Rumpel 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 sisters, the origin of one all-selfish vanity, of the other all-generous attachment. Anne saw nothing, thought nothing, of the brilliancy of the room, her happiness was from within. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks glowed, but she knew nothing about it. She was thinking only of the last half-hour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range over it. His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his manner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light. His opinion of Louisa Musgrove's inferiority, an opinion which he had seemed solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings as to a first, strong attachment, sentences begun which he could not finish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance, all all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least, that anger, resentment, avoidance were no more, and that they were succeeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness of the past. Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past. She could not contemplate the change as implying less. He must love her. These were thoughts with their attendant visions which occupied and flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation, and she passed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even trying to discern him. When their places were determined on, and they were all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen to be in the same part of the room, but he was not. Her eye could not reach him, and the concert being just opening, she must consent four time to be happy in a humbler way. The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches. Anne was among those on the foremost, and Mr. Elliott had maneuvered so well with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallace, as to have a seat by her. Miss Elliott, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object of Colonel Wallace's gallantry, was quite contented. Anne's mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the evening. It was just occupation enough. She had feelings for the tender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience for the wearisome, and had never liked a concert better, at least during the first act. Towards the close of it, in the interval succeeding an Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr. Elliott. They had a concert bill between them. This, said she, is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the words, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be talked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give, for I do not pretend to understand the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar." "'Yes, yes, I see you are. I see you know nothing of the matter. You have only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these inverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant English. You need not say anything more of your ignorance. Here is complete proof. I will not oppose such kind politeness, but I should be sorry to be examined by a real proficient." "'I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long,' replied he, without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliott, and I do regard her as one who is too modest for the world in general, to be aware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for modesty to be natural than any other woman. For shame! For shame! This is too much flattery. I forget what we are to have next." Turning to the bill. "'Perhaps,' said Mr. Elliott, speaking low, "'I have had a longer acquaintance with your character than you are aware of.' "'Indeed?' "'How so? You can have been acquainted with it only since I came to Bath, accepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my own family. I knew you by report, long before you came to Bath. I had heard you described by those who knew you intimately. I have been acquainted with you by character many years. Your person, your disposition, accomplishments, manner—they were all present to me.'" Mr. Elliott was not disappointed in the interest he hoped to raise. No one can withstand the charm of such a mystery. To have been described long ago to a recent acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible, and Anne was all curiosity. She wondered, she questioned him eagerly, but in vain. He delighted in being asked, but he would not tell. No, no, some time or other, perhaps, but not now. He would mention no names now, but such he could assure her had been the fact. He had many years ago received such a description of Miss Anne Elliott, as had inspired him with the highest idea of her merit, and excited the warmest curiosity to know her. Anne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with partiality of her many years ago, as the Mr. Wentworth of Monkford—Captain Wentworth's brother. He might have been in Mr. Elliott's company, but she had not courage to ask the question. The name of Anne Elliott, said he, has long had an interesting sound to me. Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy, and, if I dead, I would breathe my wishes that the name might never change. Such, she believed, were his words, but scarcely had she received their sound, then her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind her, which rendered everything else trivial. Her father and Lady Dalrymple were speaking. A well-looking man, said Sir Walter, a very well-looking man. A very fine young man, indeed, said Lady Dalrymple, more rare than one often sees in Bath. Irish, I dare say. No, I know just his name—a bowing acquaintance—Wentworth, Captain Wentworth of the Navy. His sister married my tenant in Somersetshire—the Croft, who rents Kellynch. Before Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne's eyes had caught the right direction, and distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a cluster of men at a little distance. As her eyes fell on him, his seemed to be withdrawn from her. It had that appearance. It seemed as if she had been one moment too late, and as long as she dared observe, he did not look again. But the performance was rec commencing, and she was forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra, and look straight forward. When she could give another glance, he had moved away. He could not have come nearer to her, if he would. She was so surrounded and shut in, but she would rather have caught his eye. Mr. Elliot's speech, too, distressed her. She had no longer any inclination to talk to him. She wished him not so near her. The first act was over. Now she hoped for some beneficial change, and after a period of nothing saying amongst the party, some of them did decide on going in quest of tea. Anne was one of the few who did not choose to move. She made at her seat, and so did Lady Russell. But she had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr. Elliot, and she did not mean whatever she might feel on Lady Russell's account, to shrink from conversation with Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity. She was persuaded by Lady Russell's countenance, that she had seen him. He did not come, however. Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a distance, but he never came. The anxious interval wore away unproductively. The others returned, the room filled again, benches were reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure, or of penance, was to be sat out. Another hour of music was to give delight, or the gaps, as real or effected taste for it prevailed. To Anne, it chiefly wore the prospect of an hour of agitation. She could not quit that room in peace without seeing Captain Wentworth once more, without the interchange of one friendly look. In re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of which was favourable for her. Colonel Wallace declined sitting down again, and Mr. Elliot was invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteray, in a manner not to be refused, to sit between them. And by some other removals, and a little scheming of her own, Anne was enabled to place herself much nearer the end of the bench than she had been before, much more within reach of a passer-by. She could not do so, without comparing herself with Miss LaRole, the inimitable Miss LaRole, but still she did it, and not with much happier effect. Though by what seemed prosperity in the shape of an early abdication in her next neighbors, she found herself at the very end of the bench before the concert closed. Such was her situation, with 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 a resolute, and only by very slow degrees came it last near enough to speak to her. She felt that something must be the matter. The change was indubitable. The difference between his present air and what it had been in the octagon-room was strikingly great. Why was it? She thought of her father, of Lady Russell. Could there have been any unpleasant glances? He began by speaking of the concert gravely, more like the Captain Wentworth of Upper Cross, owned himself disappointed, had expected singing, and in short must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over. Then replied, and spoke in defence of the performance so well, and yet in allowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his countenance improved, and he replied again with almost a smile. They talked for a few minutes more, the improvement held. He even looked down towards the bench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying. When at that moment a touch on her shoulder obliged Anne to turn round, it came from Mr. Elliot. He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to explain Italian again. His carteray was very anxious to have a general idea of what was next to be sung, and could not refuse, but never had she sacrificed a politeness with a more suffering spirit. A few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed, and when her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done before, she found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved yet hurried sort of farewell. He must wish her good night, he was going, he should get home as fast as he could. "'Is not this song worth staying for?' said Anne, suddenly struck by an idea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging. "'No,' he replied impressively, "'there is nothing worth my staying for.' And he was gone directly." Jealousy of Mr. Elliot! It was the only intelligible motive. Captain Wentworth jealous of her affection. Could she have believed it a week ago, three hours ago, for a moment the gratification was exquisite. But alas! There were very different thoughts to succeed. How was such jealousy to be quieted? How was the truth to reach him? How, in all the peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever learn of her real sentiments? It was misery to think of Mr. Elliot's attentions. Their evil was incalculable. CHAPTER XXI Anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to Mrs. Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when Mr. Elliot would be most likely to call, for to avoid Mr. Elliot was almost a first object. She felt a great deal of goodwill towards him. In spite of the mischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps compassion. She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary circumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right to which he seemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own sentiments, by his early prepossession. It was altogether very extraordinary, flattering, but painful. There was much to regret. How she might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case was not worth inquiry, for there was a Captain Wentworth, and be the conclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be his for ever. Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from other men than their final separation. The sheer musings of high wrought love and eternal constancy could never have passed along the streets of Bath than Anne was sporting with from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way. She was sure of a pleasant reception, and her friend seemed this morning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have expected her, though it had been an appointment. An account of the concert was immediately claimed, and Anne's recollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her features and make her rejoice to talk of it. All that she could tell, she told most gladly. But the all was little for one who had been there, and unsatisfactory for such an inquirer as Mrs. Smith, who had already heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter, rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the company. Many of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well known by name to Mrs. Smith. The little dirans were there, I conclude, said she, with their mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed, they never miss a concert. Yes, I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr. Elliott say they were in the room. The Ibbotsons were they there, and the two new beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who has talked of for one of them. I do not know. I do not think they were. Old Lady Mary MacLean! I need not ask after her. She never misses, I know, and she must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle, for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course. No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off, and we were exceedingly well-placed—that is, for hearing. I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little. Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond. But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. No, no, you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed, that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation. Anne half smiled and said, Do you see that in my eye? Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world—the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together. A blush overspread Anne's cheeks, she could say nothing. And such being the case, continued Mrs. Smith, after a short pause, I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasant demands upon your time." Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her, after another short silence. Pray, said Mrs. Smith, is Mr. Elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath? Mr. Elliot! Did Anne, looking up, surprised? A moment's reflection showed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it instantaneously, and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, she soon added more composedly. Are you acquainted with Mr. Elliot? I have been a good deal acquainted with him, replied Mrs. Smith gravely, but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met. I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you. To confess the truth, said Mrs. Smith, assuming her usual air of tearfulness, that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have. I want you to talk about me to Mr. Elliot. I want your interest with him. He can be of essential service to me, and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done. I should be extremely happy. I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to be of even the slightest use to you," replied Anne. But I suspect that you are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr. Elliot, a greater right to influence him, than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only as Mr. Elliot's relation. If in that light there is anything which you suppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not hesitate to employ me." Mrs. Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said, I have been a little premature, I perceive. I beg your pardon. I ought to have waited for official information. But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak, next week—to be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr. Elliot's good fortune. No, replied Anne, nor next week, nor next, nor next. I assure you that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled of any week. I am not going to marry Mr. Elliot. I should like to know why you imagine I am." Mrs. Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head, and exclaimed, Now, how I do wish I understood you! How I do wish I knew what you were at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have any body. It is a thing, of course, among us, that every man is refused till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my—present friend, I cannot call him—but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentleman-like, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr. Elliot. I am sure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallace, and who can know better than Colonel Wallace? My dear Mrs. Smith, Mr. Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one. Oh! If these are your only objections! cried Mrs. Smith, archly. Mr. Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget to me when you are married—that's all. Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of, as he can. Very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr. Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray. He will not be misled by others to his ruin. No," said Anne, I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm, decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from anything that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long. But he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs. Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me, which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing, I shall not accept him. I assure you, I shall not. I assure you, Mr. Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford. Not Mr. Elliot. It is not Mr. Elliot that— She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much, but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs. Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr. Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond, and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs. Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr. Elliot, where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. Do tell me how it first came into your head. It first came into my head, replied Mrs. Smith, upon finding how much she were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for, by everybody belonging to either of you, and you may depend upon it, that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way, but I never heard it spoken of till two days ago. And has it indeed been spoken of? Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday? No. Was it not Mrs. Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular. It was my friend, Mrs. Rook, nurse Rook, who by the by had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough buildings only on Sunday, and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr. Elliot. She had had it from Mrs. Wallace herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history. The whole history, repeated Anne, laughing, she could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news. Mrs. Smith said nothing. But—continued Anne presently—though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr. Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message? No, I thank you. No, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might perhaps have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances, but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with. I think you spoke of having known Mr. Elliot many years. I did. Not before he was married, I suppose. Yes, he was not married when I knew him first. And were you much acquainted? Intimately. Indeed. Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr. Elliot was, as a very young man. Was he at all, such as he appears now? I have not seen Mr. Elliot these three years. Was Mrs. Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther, and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity? They were both silent, Mrs. Smith very thoughtful. At last— I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot! She cried, in her natural tone of cordiality. I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined. I think I am right. I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr. Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore. Now, while you are unprejudiced, Mr. Elliot is a man without heart or conscience, a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself, whom for his own interest or ease would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black. Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner she added, My expressions startle you. You must allow for an injured, angry woman, but I will try to command myself. I will not abuse him. I will only tell you what I have found him. Facts shall speak. He was the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before our marriage. I found the most intimate friends, and I too became excessively pleased with Mr. Elliott, and entertained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously. But Mr. Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable than most others, and we were almost always together. We were principally in town, living in very good style. He was then the inferior in circumstances, he was then the poor one, he had chambers in the temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman. He had always a home with us whenever he chose it. He was always welcome. He was like a brother. My poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his last farthing with him, and I know that his purse was open to him. I know that he often assisted him. This must have been about that very period of Mr. Elliott's life, said Anne, which has always excited my particular curiosity. It must have been about the same time that became known to my father and sister. I never knew him myself, I only heard of him. But there was a something in his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and afterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could quite reconcile with present times. It seemed to announce a different sort of man. I know it all. I know it all! cried Mrs. Smith. He had been introduced to Sir Walter and your sister before I was acquainted with him, but I heard him speak of them for ever. I know he was invited and encouraged, and I know he did not choose to go. I can satisfy you, perhaps, on points which you would little expect, and as to his marriage, I knew all about it at the time. I was privy to all the foes and againsts, I was a friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans, and though I did not know his wife previously, her inferior situation and society, indeed, rented that impossible, yet I knew her all her life afterwards, for at least till within the last two years of her life, and can answer any question you may wish to put. Nay! said Anne. I have no particular inquiry to make about her. I have always understood they were not a happy couple. But I should like to know why, at that time of his life, he should slight my father's acquaintance as he did. My father was certainly disposed to take very kind and proper notice of him. Why did Mr. Elliot draw back? Mr. Elliot, replied Mrs. Smith, at that period of his life, had one object in view—to make his fortune, and by a rather quicker process than the law. He was determined to make it by marriage. He was determined, at least, not to mar it by an imprudent marriage, and I know it was his belief, whether justly or not, of course, I cannot decide, that your father and sister, in their civilities and invitations, were designing a match between the heir and the young lady. And it was impossible that such a match should have answered his ideas of wealth and independence. That was his motive for drawing back, I can assure you. He told me the whole story. He had no concealments with me. It was curious that having just left you behind me in Bath, my first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be your cousin, and that, through him, I should be constantly hearing of your father and sister. He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought very affectionately of the other. Perhaps, cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea, you sometimes spoke of me to Mr. Elliot. To be sure I did, very often, I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot, and vowed for your being a very different creature from—she checked herself just in time. This accounts for something which Mr. Elliot said last night, cried Anne. This explains it. I found he had been used to hear of me. I could not comprehend how. Not wild imaginations, one forms, where dear self is concerned—how sure to be mistaken! But I beg your pardon, I have interrupted you. Mr. Elliot married then completely for money. The circumstances probably which first opened your eyes to his character. Mrs. Smith hesitated a little here. Oh! Those things are too common. When one lives in the world, a man or woman's marrying for money is too common to strike one as a tort. I was very young, and associated only with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set without any strict rules of conduct. We lived for enjoyment. I think differently now. Time and sickness and sorrow have given me other notions. But at that period I must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr. Elliot was doing, to do the best for himself, past as a duty. But was not she a very low woman? Yes—which I objected to—but he would not regard. Money, money was all that he wanted. Her father was a Grazier, her grandfather had been a Butcher, but that was all nothing. She was a fine woman, had had a decent education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance into Mr. Elliot's company, and fell in love with him. And not difficulty or a scruple was there on his side, with respect to her birth. All his caution was spent in being secured of the real amount of her fortune, before he committed himself. Depend upon it, whatever esteem Mr. Elliot may have for his own situation in life now, as a young man he had not the smallest value for it. His chance for the Kellynter State was something. But all the honour of the family he held as cheap as dirt. I have often heard him declare, that if baronetsies were saleable, anybody should have his for fifty pounds, arms and motto, name and livery included. But I will not pretend to repeat half that I used to hear him say on that subject. It would not be fair, and yet you ought to have proof, for what is all this but assertion, and you shall have proof? Indeed, my dear Mrs. Smith, I want none, cried Anne, you have asserted nothing contradictory to what Mr. Elliot appeared to be some years ago. This is all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to hear and believe. I am more curious to know why he should be so different now. But for my satisfaction, if you will have the goodness to ring for Mary, stay! I am sure you will have the still greater goodness of going yourself into my bedroom, and bringing me the small inlaid books which you will find in the upper shelf of the closet." Anne, seeing her French to be earnestly bent on it, did as she was desired. The box was brought and placed before her, and Mrs. Smith, sighing over it as she unlocked it, said, This is full of papers belonging to him, to my husband, a small portion only of what I had to look over when I lost him. The letter I am looking for was one written by Mr. Elliot to him before our marriage, and happened to be saved. Why one can hardly imagine? But he was careless and immethodical, like other men, about those things, and when I came to examine his papers, I found it with others still more trivial, from different people scattered here and there, while many letters and memorandums of real importance had been destroyed. Here it is. I would not burn it, because being even then very little satisfied with Australia, I was determined to preserve every document of former intimacy. I have now another motive for being glad that I can produce it. This was the letter, directed to Charles Smith, Esquire, Tunbridge Wells, and dated from London, as far back as July, 1803. Dear Smith, I have received yours. Your kindness almost overpowers me. I wish nature had made such hearts as yours more common, but I have lived three and twenty years in the world, and have seen none like it. At present, believe me, I have no need of your services being in cash again. Give me joy. I have got rid of Sir Walter and Miss. They are gone back to Kellidge, and almost made me swear to visit them this summer. But my first visit to Kellidge will be with the Surveyor, to tell me how to bring it with best advantage to the Hammer. The Baron, at nevertheless, is not unlikely to marry again. He is quite fool enough. If he does, however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent equivalent for the Reversion. He is worse than last year. I wish I had any name but Elliot. I am sick of it. The name of Walter I can drop, thank God, and I desire you will never insult me with thy second W again, meaning for the rest of my life to be only yours truly, William Elliot. Such a letter could not be read without putting Anne in a glow, and Mrs. Smith, observing the high colour in her face, said, The language I know is highly disrespectful, though I have forgot the exact terms, I have a perfect impression of the general meaning. But it shows you the man. Mark is professions to my poor husband. Can anything be stronger? The Baron could not immediately get over the shock and mortification of finding such words applied to her father. She was obliged to recollect that her seeing the letter was a violation of the laws of honour, that no one ought to be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no private correspondence could bear the eye of others, before she could recover calmness enough to return the letter which she had been meditating over, and say, Thank you. This is full proof, undoubtedly, proof of everything you were saying. But why be acquainted with us now? I can explain this, too," cried Mrs. Smith, smiling. Can you really? Yes. I have shown you, Mr. Elliott, as he was a dozen years ago, and I will show him as he is now. I cannot produce written proof again, but I can give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is now wanting, and what he is now doing. He is no hypocrite now. He truly wants to marry you. His present attentions to your family are very sincere, quite from the heart. I will give you my authority, his friend, Colonel Wallace. Colonel Wallace! You are acquainted with him? No. It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that. It takes a bend or two, but nothing of consequence. The stream is as good as at first. The little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily moved away. Mr. Elliott talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallace of his views on you. Which said, Colonel Wallace, I imagine to be, in himself, a sensible, careful, discerning sort of character. But Colonel Wallace has a very pretty, silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better not, and he repeats it all to her. She, in the overflowing spirits of her recovery, repeats it all to her nurse, and the nurse, knowing my acquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me. On Monday evening my good friend Mrs. Rook let me thus much into the secrets of Marlborough buildings. When I talked of a whole history, therefore, you see, I was not romancing so much as you supposed. My dear Mrs. Smith, your authority is deficient. This will not do. Mr. Elliott's having any views on me will not in the least account for the efforts he made towards a reconciliation with my father. That was all prior to my coming to Bath. I found them on the most friendly terms when I arrived. I know you did. I know it all perfectly, but—indeed, Mrs. Smith, we must not expect to get real information in such a line. Facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so many, to be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can hardly have much truth left. Only give me a hearing. You will soon be able to judge of the general credit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself immediately contradict or confirm. Nobody supposes that you were his first inducement. He had seen you, indeed, before he came to Bath, and admired you, but without knowing it to be you. So says my historian at least. Is this true? Did he see you last summer or autumn, somewhere down in the west, to use her own words, without knowing it to be you? He certainly did. So far it is very true. At Lyme. Well, continued Mrs. Smith triumphantly, grant my friend the credit due to the establishment of the first point asserted. He saw you then at Lyme, and liked you so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet with you again in Camden Place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from that moment, I have no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there. But there was another, and an earlier, which I will now explain. If there is anything in my story which you know to be either false or improbable, stop me. My account states that your sister's friend, the lady now staying with you, whom I have heard you mention, came to Bath with Miss Elliot and Sir Walter as long ago as September—in short, when they first came themselves—it has been staying there ever since—that she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and plausible, and altogether such in situation and manner as to give a general idea among Sir Walter's acquaintance of her meaning to be Lady Elliot, and as general a surprise that Miss Elliot should be apparently blind to the danger. Here Mrs. Smith paused a moment, but Anne had not a word to say, and she continued. This was the light in which it appeared to those who knew the family, long before you returned to it, and Colonel Wallace had his eye upon your father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit in Camden Place. But his regard for Mr. Elliot gave him an interest in watching all that was going on there, and when Mr. Elliot came to Bath for a day or two, as he happened to do a little before Christmas, Colonel Wallace made him acquainted with the appearance of things, and the reports beginning to prevail. Now you are to understand that time had worked a very material change in Mr. Elliot's opinions as to the value of a baronetcy. On all points of blood and connection, he is a completely altered man. Having long had as much money as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has been gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is heir to. I thought it coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it is now a confirmed feeling. He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir William. You may guess, therefore, that the news he heard from his friend could not be very agreeable, and you may guess what it produced—the resolution of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and of fixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former acquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family, as might give him the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of circumventing the lady if he found it material. This was agreed upon between the two friends as the only thing to be done, and Colonel Wallace was to assist in every way that he could. He was to be introduced, and Mrs. Wallace was to be introduced, and everybody was to be introduced. Mr. Eliot came back accordingly, and on application was forgiven, as you know, and readmitted into the family, and there it was his constant object, and his only object, till your arrival added another motive, to watch Sir Eliot and Mrs. Clay. He omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at all hours. But I need not be particular on this subject. You can imagine what an artful man would do, and with this guide, perhaps, may recollect what you have seen him do. Yes, said Anne. You tell me nothing which does not accord with what I have known, or could imagine. There is always something offensive in the details of cunning. The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me. I know those would be shocked by such a representation of Mr. Eliot, who would have difficulty in believing it. But I have never been satisfied. I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared. I should like to know his present opinion, as to the probability of the event he has been in dread of, whether he considers the danger to be lessening or not. Lessening, I understand, replied Mrs. Smith. He thinks Mrs. Clay afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to proceed as she might do in his absence. But since he must be absent some time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her present influence. Mrs. Wallace has an amusing idea, as Nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when you and Mr. Eliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs. Clay. A scheme worthy of Mrs. Wallace's understanding by all accounts, but my sensible nurse Rook sees the absurdity of it. Why, to be sure, mum, said she, it would not prevent his marrying anybody else. And indeed, to own the truth, I do not think Nurse, in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match. She must be allowed to be a favourer of match-money, you know. And since self will intrude, who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Eliot, through Mrs. Wallace's recommendation? I am very glad to know all this, said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness. It will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him, but I shall know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct. Mr. Eliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness. But Mr. Eliot was not done with. Mrs. Smith had been carried away from her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family concerns, how much had been originally implied against him. But her attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints, and she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify the unqualified bitterness of Mrs. Smith, proved him to have been very unfeeling in his conduct towards her, very deficient both in justice and compassion. She learned that, the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr. Eliot's marriage, they had been as before always together, and Mr. Eliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs. Smith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of throwing any on her husband. But Anne could collect that their income had never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first there had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance. From his wife's account of him she could discern Mr. Smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him, led by him, and probably despised by him. Mr. Eliot, raised by his marriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself, for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man, and beginning to be rich, justice his friend ought to have found himself to be poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's probable finances, but on the contrary had been prompting and encouraging expenses which could only end in ruin, and the Smiths accordingly had been ruined. The husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of it. They had previously known embarrassment enough to try the friendship of their friends, and proved that Mr. Eliot's had better not be tried. But it was not till his death that the wretched state of his affairs was fully known. With the confidence in Mr. Eliot's regard, more creditable to his feelings and his judgment, Mr. Smith had appointed him the executor of his will. But Mr. Eliot would not act, and the difficulties and distress which this refusal had heaped on her, in addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been such as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or listened to without corresponding indignation. Anne was shown some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent applications from Mrs. Smith, which all breathed the same stern resolution of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold civility, the same hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it might bring on her. It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and inhumanity, and Anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime could have been worse. She had a great deal to listen to—all the particulars of past sad scenes, all the binutia of distress upon distress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were dwelt on now with a natural indulgence. Anne could perfectly comprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to wonder at the composure of her friend's usual state of mind. There was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of particular irritation. She had good reason to believe that some property of her husband in the West Indies, which had been for many years under a sort of sequestration for the payment of its own encumbrances, might be recoverable by proper measures, and this property, though not large, would be enough to make her comparatively rich. But there was nobody to stir in it. Mr. Elliott would do nothing, and she could do nothing herself, equally disabled from personal exertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by her want of money. She had no natural connections to assist her even with their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance of the law. This was a cruel aggravation of actually straightened means, to feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little trouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be even weakening her claims, was hard to bear. It was on this point that she had hoped to engage Anne's good offices with Mr. Elliott. She had previously, in the anticipation of their marriage, been very apprehensive of losing her friend by it, but on being assured that he could have made no attempt of that nature, since he did not even know her to be in Bath, it immediately occurred that something might be done in her favour by the influence of the woman he loved, and she had been hastily preparing to interest Anne's feelings, as far as the observances due to Mr. Elliott's character would allow, when Anne's refutation of the supposed engagement changed the face of everything, and while it took from her the new-formed hope of succeeding in the object of her first anxiety, left her at least the comfort of telling the whole story her own way. After listening to this full description of Mr. Elliott, Anne could not but express some surprise at Mrs. Smith's having spoken of him so favourably in the beginning of their conversation, she had seemed to recommend and praise him. My dear, was Mrs. Smith's reply. There was nothing else to be done. I considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have made the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he had been your husband. My heart bled for you, as I talked of happiness, and yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a woman as you it was not absolutely hopeless. He was very unkind to his first wife, they were wretched together, but she was too ignorant and giddy for respect, and he had never loved her. I was willing to hope that you must fare better." Anne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having been induced to marry him, has made her shudder at the idea of the misery which must have followed. It was just possible that she might have been persuaded by Lady Russell, and under such a supposition, which would have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too late. It was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no longer deceived, and one of the concluding arrangements of this important conference, which carried them through the greater part of the morning, was that Anne had full liberty to communicate to her friend everything relative to Mrs. Smith, in which his conduct was involved. CHAPTER XXII Anne went home to think over all that she had heard. In one point, her feelings were relieved by this knowledge of Mr. Elliott. There was no longer anything of tenderness due to him. He stood as opposed to Captain Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness, and the evil of his attentions last night. The irremediable mischief he might have done was considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed. Pity for him was all over. But this was the only point of relief. In every other respect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw more to distrust and to apprehend. She was concerned for the disappointment and pain Lady Russell would be feeling, for the mortification which must be hanging over her father and sister, and had all the distress of foreseeing many evils, without knowing how to avert any one of them. She was most thankful for her own knowledge of him. She had never considered herself as entitled to reward for not sliding an old friend like Mrs. Smith, but here was a reward indeed springing from it. Mrs. Smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done. Could the knowledge have been extended through her family? But this was a vain idea. She must talk to Lady Russell, tell her, consult with her, wait the event with as much composure as possible, and after all, her greatest want of composure would be in that quarter of the mind which could not be open to Lady Russell, in that flow of anxieties and fears which must be all to herself. She found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped seeing Mr. Elliot. They had called and paid them a long-morning visit, but hardly had she congratulated herself and felt safe, when she heard that he was coming again in the evening. I had not the smallest intention of asking him, said Elizabeth, with affected carelessness, but he gave so many hints, so Mrs. Clay says at least. Indeed, I do say it. I never saw anybody in my life spell harder for an invitation. Poor man! I was really in pain for him. For your hard-hearted sister, Miss Anne, seems bent on cruelty. Oh! cried Elizabeth. I have been rather too much used to the game to be soon overcome by a gentleman's hints. However, when I found how excessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this morning, I gave way immediately, for I would never really omit an opportunity of bringing him and Sir Walter together. They appear to so much advantage in company with each other, each behaving so pleasantly. Mr. Elliot looking up with so much respect. Quite delightful! cried Mrs. Clay, not daring, however, to turn her eyes towards Anne. Exactly like father and son! Dear Miss Elliot, may I not say father and son. No! I lay no embargo on anybody's words, if you will have such ideas. But upon my word, I am scarcely sensible of his attentions being beyond those of other men. My dear Miss Elliot! exclaimed Mrs. Clay, lifting her hands and eyes, and sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence. Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him. I did invite him, you know. I sent him away with smiles. When I found he was really going to his friends at Thornbury Park for the whole day to-morrow, I had compassion on him. Anne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to show such pleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of the very person, whose presence must really be interfering with her prime object. It was impossible, but that Mrs. Clay must hate the sight of Mr. Elliot, and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look, and appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting herself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have done otherwise. To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr. Elliot enter the room, and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her. She had been used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but now she saw insincerity in everything. His attentive deference to her father, contrasted with his former language, was odious, and when she thought of his cruel conduct toward Mrs. Smith, she could hardly bear the sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his artificial good sentiments. She meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a remonstrance on his side. It was a great object to her to escape all inquiry or eclat. But it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to him as might be compatible with their relationship, and to retrace, as quietly as she could, the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had been gradually let along. She was accordingly more guarded, and more cool, than she had been the night before. He wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could have heard her formally praised. He wanted very much to be gratified by more solicitation, but the charm was broken. He found that the heat and animation of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin's vanity. He found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of those attempts which he could hazard among the two commanding claims of the others. He little surmised that it was a subject acting now exactly against his interest, bringing immediately to her thoughts all those parts of his conduct which were least excusable. She had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of Bath the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the greater part of two days. He was invited again to Camden Place the very evening of his return, but from Thursday to Saturday evening his absence was certain. It was bad enough that a Mrs. Clay should be always before her, but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to their party, seemed the destruction of everything like peace and comfort. It was so humiliating to reflect on the constant deception practised on her father and Elizabeth, to consider the various sources of mortification preparing for them. Mrs. Clay's selfishness was not so complicated nor so revolting as his, and Anne would have compounded for the marriage at once, with all its evils, to be clear of Mr. Elliot's subtleties and endeavouring to prevent it. On Friday morning she meant to go very early to Lady Russell, and accomplish the necessary communication. And she would have gone directly after breakfast, but that Mrs. Clay was also going out on some obliging purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined her to wait till she might be safe from such a companion. She saw Mrs. Clay fairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning in River Street. "'Very well,' said Elizabeth, "'I have nothing to send but my love. No. You may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and pretend I have read it through. I really cannot be plaguing myself for ever with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out. Lady Russell quite bores one with her new publications. You need not tell her so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night. I used to think she had some taste in dress, but I was shamed of her at the concert. She was so formal and arranged in her air, and she sits so upright. My best love, of course." "'And mine,' added Sir Walter, kindest regards, "'and you may say that I mean to call upon her very soon. Make a civil message, but I shall only leave my card. Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of life, who make themselves up so little. If she would only wear rouge, she would not be afraid of being seen. Since last time I called, I observed the blind one let down immediately." While her father spoke, there was a knock at the door. Who could it be? Anne, remembering the preconcerted visits at all hours of Mr. Elliott, would have expected him, but for his known engagement seven miles off. After the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of approach were heard, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Musgrove were ushered into the room. The eyes was the strongest emotion raised by their appearance, but Anne was really glad to see them. And the others were not so sorry, but that they could put on a decent air of welcome, and as soon as it became clear that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any views of accommodation in that house, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were able to rise in cordiality, and do the honors of it very well. They were come to Bath for a few days with Mrs. Musgrove, and were at the White Heart. So much was pretty soon understood, but till Sir Walter and Elizabeth were walking Mary into the other drawing-room, and regaling themselves with her admiration, and could not draw upon Charles's brain for a regular history of their coming, or an explanation of some smiling hints of particular business, which had been ostentatiously dropped by Mary, as well as of some apparent confusion as to whom their party consisted of. She then found that it consisted of Mrs. Musgrove, Henrietta, and Captain Harville, beside their two selves. He gave her a very plain, intelligible account of the whole, an aeration in which she saw a great deal of most characteristic proceeding. The scheme had received its first impulse by Captain Harville's wanting to come to Bath on business. He had begun to talk of it a week ago, and by way of doing something, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed coming with him, and Mrs. Harville had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an advantage to her husband, but Mary could not bear to be left, and had made herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything seemed to be in suspense, or at an end. But then, it had been taken up by his father and mother. His mother had some old friends in Bath whom she wished to see. It was thought a good opportunity for Henrietta to come, and by wedding-clothes for herself and her sister. And in short, it ended in being his mother's party, that everything might be comfortable and easy to Captain Harville, and he and Mary were included in it by way of general convenience. They had arrived late the night before. Mrs. Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with Mr. Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross. One's only surprise was that affairs should be in forwardness enough for Henrietta's wedding-clothes to be talked of. She had imagined such difficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage from being near at hand, but she learned from Charles that, very recently, since Mary's last letter to herself, Charles Hager had been applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not possibly claim it under many years, and that on the strength of his present income, with almost a certainty of something more permanent long before the term in question, the two families had consented to the young people's wishes, and that their marriage was likely to take place in a few months, quite as soon as Louisa's. And a very good living it was, Charles added, only five and twenty miles from Uppercross, and in a very fine country, fine part of Dorseture, in the centre of some of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great proprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other, and to two of the three at least, Charles Hager might get a special recommendation, not that he will value it as he ought. He observed, Charles is too cool about sporting, that's the worst of him. I am extremely glad, indeed, cried Anne, particularly glad that this should happen, and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well, and who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of one should not be dimming those of the other, that they should be so equal in their prosperity and comfort. I hope your father and mother are quite happy with regard to both. Oh, yes! My father would be well pleased if the gentleman were richer, but he has no other fault to find. Money you know, coming down with money, two daughters at once, it cannot be a very agreeable operation, and it straightens him as to many things. However, I do not mean to say that they have not a right to it. It is very fit that they should have daughters' shares, and I am sure he has always been a very kind, liberal father to me. Mary does not above half like Henrietta's match, she never did, you know, but she does not do him justice, nor think enough about Winthrop. I cannot make her attend to the value of the property. It is a very fair match, as times go, and I have liked Charles Hater all my life, and I shall not leave off now. Such excellent parents as Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove, exclaimed Anne, should be happy in their children's marriages. They do everything to confer happiness, I am sure. What a blessing to young people to be in such hands. Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those ambitious feelings, which have led to so much misconduct in misery, both in young and old. I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered now." He answered rather hesitatingly, "'Yes, I believe I do. Very much recovered. But she is altered. There is no running or jumping about, no laughing or dancing. It is quite different. If one happens only to shut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young dab-chick in the water, and Benick sits at her elbow, reading verses, or whispering to her, all day long." Anne could not help laughing. "'That cannot be much to your taste, I know,' said she, but I do believe him to be an excellent young man. To be sure he is. Nobody doubts it, and I hope you do not think I am so illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and pleasures as myself. I have a great value for Benick, and when one can but get him to talk, he has plenty to say. His reading has done him no harm, for he has fought as well as read. He is a brave fellow. I got more acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before. We had a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father's great barns, and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better ever since." Here they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles's following the others to admire mirrors and china, but Anne had heard enough to understand the present state of upper cross, and to rejoice in its happiness, and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none of the ill-will of envy in it. She would certainly have risen to their blessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs. The visit passed off altogether in high good humour. Mary was an excellent spirit, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well satisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law's carriage with four horses, and with her own complete independence of Camden Place, that she was exactly in a temper to admire everything as she ought, and enter most readily into all the superiorities of the house, as they were detailed to her. She had no demands on her father or sister, and her consequence was just enough increased by their handsome drawing-rooms. Elizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal. She felt that Mrs. Musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them, but she could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of servants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been always so inferior to the elliots of Kellynch. It was a struggle between propriety and vanity, but vanity got the better, and then Elizabeth was happy again. These were her internal persuasions. Old-fashioned notions, country hospitality—we do not profess to give dinners, few people in Bath do—Lady Alicia never does—did not even ask her own sister's family, though they were here a month. And I just say it would be very inconvenient to Mrs. Musgrove put her quite out of her way. I am sure she would rather not come. She cannot feel easy with us. I will ask them all for an evening. That will be much better. That will be a novelty and a treat. They have not seen two such drawing-rooms before. They will be delighted to come to-morrow evening. It shall be a regular party—small, but most elegant." And this satisfied Elizabeth, and when the invitation was given to the two present and promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied. She was particularly asked to meet Mr. Elliott, and be introduced to Lady Dolrymple and Miss Carteray, who were fortunately already engaged to come, and she could not have received a more gratifying attention. Miss Elliott was to have the honour of calling on Mrs. Musgrove in the course of the morning, and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go and see her and Henrietta directly. Her plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present. They all three called in River Street for a couple of minutes, but Anne convinced herself that a day's delay of the intended communication could be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the White Heart, to see again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an eagerness of good will which many associations contributed to form. They found Mrs. Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and Anne had the kindest welcome from each. She was exactly in that state of recently improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made her full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before at all, and Mrs. Musgrove's real affection had been won by her usefulness when they were in distress. It was a heartiness, and a warmth, and a sincerity, which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad want of such blessings at home. She was entreated to give them as much of her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or rather claimed as part of the family, and in return she naturally fell into her won'ted ways of attention and assistance, and on Charles's leaving them together, was listening to Mrs. Musgrove's history of Louisa, and to Henrietta's of herself, giving opinions on business and recommendations to shops, with intervals of every help which Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts, from finding her keys and assorting her trinkets, to trying to convince her that she was not ill-used by anybody, which Mary, well-amused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the entrance to the pump-room, could not but have her moments of imagining. A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected. A large party in a hotel ensured a quick, changing, unsettled scene. One five minutes brought a note, the next, a parcel, and Anne had not been there half an hour when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half filled. A party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs. Musgrove, and Charles came back with captains Harville and Wentworth. The appearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the moment. It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that his arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together again. Their last meeting had been most important in opening his feelings. She had derived from it a delightful conviction. But she feared from his looks that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had hastened him away from the concert-room, still governed. He did not seem to want to be near enough for conversation. She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried to dwell much on the argument of rational dependence. Surely, if there be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand each other along. We are not boy and girl, to be capsiously irritable, misled by every moment's inadvertence, and wantonly playing with our own happiness. And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt as if they're being in company with each other, under their present circumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and misconstructions of the most mischievous kind. Anne, cried Mary, still at her window, there is Mrs. Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, at a gentleman with her. I saw them turn the corner from Bath Street just now. They seemed deep in talk. Who is it? Come and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect! It is Mr. Elliott himself. No! cried Anne quickly. It cannot be Mr. Elliott, I assure you. He was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and is 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. Elliott, calling again upon Anne to come and look for herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to be cool and unconcerned. Her distress returned, however, on perceiving smiles and intelligent glances past between two or three of the Lady Visitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret. It was evident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause succeeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther. Do come, Anne, cried Mary, come and look yourself. You will be too late if you do not make haste. They are parting. They are shaking hands. He's turning away. Not know Mr. Elliott 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. Elliott, which she had never believed, before he disappeared on one side, as Mrs. Clay walked quickly off on the other, and checking the surprise which she could not but feel at such an appearance of friendly conference between two persons of totally opposite interest, she calmly said, Yes. It is Mr. Elliott, certainly. He has changed his hour of going, I suppose. That is all. Or I may be mistaken. I might not attend. And walked back to her chair, recomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself well. The visitors took their leave, and Charles, having civilly seen them off, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began with, Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like. I have been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night. And I a good boy. I know you love a play, and there is room for us all. It holds nine. I have engaged Captain Wentworth. Anne will not be sorry to join us, I am sure. We all like a play. Have not I done well, mother? Mrs. Musgrove was good-humoredly beginning to express her perfect readiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when Mary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming. Good heavens, Charles, how can you think of such a thing? Take a box for to-morrow night. Have you forgot that we are engaged in Camden Place to-morrow night, and that we were most particularly asked to meet Lady Del Rimble and her daughter, and Mr. Elliott, and all the principal family connections, on purpose to be introduced to them? How can you be so forgetful? Foo-foo! replied Charles, what's an evening party? Never worth remembering. Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he had wanted to see us. You may do as you like, but I shall go to the play. Oh, Charles, I declare it would be too abominable, if you do, when you promise to go. No, I did not promise. I only smirked and bowed, and said the word, happy. There was no promise. But you must go, Charles. It would be unpardonable to fail. We were asked on purpose to be introduced. There was always such a great connection between the Del Rimples and ourselves. Nothing ever happened on either side that was not announced immediately. We are quite near relations, you know, and Mr. Elliott, too, whom you ought so particularly to be acquainted with. Every attention is due, Mr. Elliott. Consider, my father's heir, the future representative of the family. Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives, cried Charles. I am not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising sun. If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it's scandalous to go for the sake of his heir. What is Mr. Elliott to me? The careless expression was life to Anne, who saw that Captain Wentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul, and that the last words brought his inquiring eyes from Charles to herself. Charles and Mary still talked on in the same style. She, half serious and half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she, invariably serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make it known that, however determined to go to Camden Place herself, she should not think herself very well used, if they went to the play without her. Mrs. Musgrove interposed. We had better put it off. Charles, you had much better go back and change the books for Tuesday. It would be a pity to be divided, and we should be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father's, and I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play, if Miss Anne could not be with us. Anne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness, and quite as much so for the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying. If it depended only on my inclination, Mum, the party at home, excepting on Mary's account, would not be the smallest impediment. I have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to change it for a play, and with you, but it had better not be attempted, perhaps. She had spoken it, but she trembled when it was done, conscious that her words were listened to, and daring not even to try to observe their effect. It was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day, Charles only reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting that he would go to the play to-morrow, if nobody else would. Captain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fireplace, probably for the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a station, with less bare-faced design, by Anne. "'You have not been long enough in Bath,' said he, to enjoy the evening parties of the place. "'Oh, no! The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no card-player.' "'You were not formerly, I know. You did not used 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. Eighty-aise-and-a-half is a period.' Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne's imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour, for while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to make use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her companions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in. They were obliged to move. Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and tried to look it, but she felt that could Henrietta have known the regret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing to quit the room. She would have found, in all her own sensations for her cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity her. Their preparations, however, were stopped short. Alarming sounds were heard. Other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir Walter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill. Anne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms of the same. The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was over, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or in sippid talk, to meet the heartless elegance of her father and sister. How mortifying to feel that it was so. Her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular. Captain Wentworth was acknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before. She even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once. Elizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure. The sequel explained it. After the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper nothings, she began to give the invitation which was to comprise all the remaining do's of the Musgroves. Tomorrow evening, to meet a few friends, no formal party. It was all said very gracefully, and the cards with which she had provided herself, the Miss Elliot at home, were laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all, and one smile and one card more decidedly for Captain Wentworth. The truth was that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand the importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his. The past was nothing. The present was that Captain Wentworth would move about well in her drawing-room. The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter and Elizabeth rose and disappeared. The interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation returned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not to Anne. She could think only of the invitation she had with such astonishment, witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been received, a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than gratification, of polite acknowledgment rather than acceptance. She knew him. She saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe that he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for all the insolence of the past. Her spirits sank. He held the card at his hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it. Only think of Elizabeth's including everybody! whispered Mary very audibly, I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted. You see he cannot put the card out of his hand! Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself into a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she might neither see nor hear more to vex her. The party separated. The gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies proceeded on their business, and they met no more while Anne belonged to them. She was earnestly begged to return and dine, and give them all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long exerted, that at present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for home, where she might be sure of being as silent as she chose. Promising to be with them the whole of the following morning, therefore, she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to Camden Place, there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the busy arrangements of Elizabeth and Mrs. Clay for the morrow's party, the frequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the continually improving detail of all the embellishments, which were to make it the most completely elegant of its kind in Bath, while harassing herself with a never-ending question of whether Captain Wentworth would come or not. They were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a gnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together. She generally thought he would come, because she generally thought he ought, but it was a case which she should not so shape into any positive act of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of very opposite feelings. She only roused herself from the broodings of this restless agitation, to let Mrs. Clay know that she had been seen with Mr. Elliott three hours after his being supposed to be out of Bath, for having watched in vain for some intimation of the interview from the lady herself, she determined to mention it, and it seemed to her there was guilt in Mrs. Clay's face as she listened. It was transient, cleared away in an instant, but Anne could imagine she read there the consciousness of having, by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing authority of his, been obliged to attend, perhaps for half an hour, to his lectures and restrictions on her designs on Sir Walter. She exclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature. Oh, dear! Very true! Only think, Miss Elliott, to my great surprise, I met with Mr. Elliott 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, but I really forget by what, for I was in a hurry, and could not much attend, and I can only answer for his being determined not to be delayed in his return. He wanted to know how early he might be admitted to-morrow. He was full of to-morrow, and it is very evident that I have been full of it too, ever since I entered the house, and learnt the extension of your plan, and all that had happened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of my head.