 Persuasion by Jane Austen, CHAPTER I. Sir Walter Elliott of Kellynch Hall in Somersetcher was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the baronetage. There he found occupation for an idle hour and consolation in a distressed one. There his faculties were roused into admiration and respect by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents. There any unwelcome sensations arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century. And there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite volume always opened. Elliott of Kellynch Hall Walter Elliott, born March 1, 1760, married July 15, 1784, Elizabeth, daughter of James Stevenson, Esquire of South Park, in the county of Gloucester, by which lady, who died 1800, he has issue, Elizabeth, born June 1, 1785, Anne, born August 9, 1787, a stillborn son, November 5, 1789, Mary, born November 20, 1791. Precisely such had the paragraph originally stood from the printer's hands, but Sir Walter had improved it by adding, for the information of himself and his family, these words after the date of Mary's birth. Married December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles Musgrove, Esquire, of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset, and by inserting most accurately the day of the month on which he had lost his wife. There followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable family in the usual terms. How it had been first settled in Cheshire, how mentioned in Dugdale, serving the office of high sheriff, representing a borough and three successive parliaments, exertions of loyalty and dignity of baronet in the first year of Charles II, with all the Marys and Elizabeths they had married, forming altogether two handsome quarto pages, and concluding with the arms and motto. Principal seat, Kellinch Hall, in the county of Somerset, and Sir Walter's handwriting again in this finale, in our presumptive William Walter Elliot Esquire, great grandson of the second Sir Walter. Vanity was the beginning and end of Sir Walter Elliot's character, vanity of person and of situation. He had been remarkably handsome in his youth, and at fifty-four was still a very fine man. Few women could think more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could the valet of any new-made lord be more delighted with the place he held in society. He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the blessing of a baronetcy, and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united these gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and devotion. His good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his attachment, since to them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to anything deserved by his own. Lady Elliot had been an excellent woman, sensible and amiable, whose judgment and conduct, if they might be pardoned, the youthful infatuation which made her, Lady Elliot, had never required indulgence afterwards. She had humoured or softened or concealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for seventeen years. And though not the very happiest being in the world herself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children, to attach her to life and make it no matter of indifference to her when she was called on to quit them. Three girls, the two eldest sixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for her mother to bequeath, an awful charge, rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a conceited, silly father. She had, however, one very intimate friend, a sensible, deserving woman, who had been brought by strong attachment to herself, to settle close by her in the village of Kellynch, and on her kindness and advice Lady Elliot mainly relied for the best help and maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she had been anxiously giving her daughters. This friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever might have been anticipated on that head by their acquaintance. Thirteen years had passed away since Lady Elliot's death, and they were still near neighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other a widow. That Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and extremely well provided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs no apology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonably discontented when a woman does marry again than when she does not. But Sir Walter's continuing in singleness requires explanation. Be it known then that Sir Walter, like a good father, having met with one or two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications, prided himself on remaining single for his dear daughter's sake. For one daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up anything, which he had not been very much tempted to do. Elizabeth had succeeded at sixteen to all that was possible of her mother's rights and consequence, and being very handsome and very like himself, her influence had always been great, and they had gone on together most happily. His two other children were of very inferior value. Mary had acquired a little artificial importance by becoming Mrs. Charles Musgrove, but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of character, which must have placed her high with any people of real understanding, was nobody with either father or sister. Her word had no weight, her convenience was always to give way. She was only Anne. To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued Goddaughter, favorite and friend. Lady Russell loved them all, but it was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again. A few years before Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her bloom had vanished early, and as even in its height her father had found little to admire in her, so totally different were her delicate features and mild, dark eyes from his own. There could be nothing in them now that she was faded and thin to excite his esteem. He had never indulged much hope, he now had none, of ever reading her name in any other page of his favorite work. All equality of alliance must rest with Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an old country family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore given all the honor and received none. Elizabeth would, one day or other, marry suitably. It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she was ten years before, and, generally speaking, if there has been neither ill-health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely any charm is lost. It was so with Elizabeth, still the same handsome misalliant that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter might be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be deemed only half a fool, for thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming as ever amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else, for he could plainly see how old all the rest of his family and acquaintance were growing. Anne, Haggard, Mary, Chorus, every face in the neighborhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow's foot about Lady Russell's temples, had long been a distress to him. Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment. Thirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and directing with a self-possession and decision which could never have given the idea of her being younger than she was. For thirteen years she had been doing the honors and laying down the domestic law at home, and leading the way to the Shays and Four, and walking immediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms in the country. Thirteen winters revolving frosts had seen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty neighborhood afforded, and thirteen springs shone their blossoms as she travelled up to London with her father for a few weeks' annual enjoyment of the great world. She had the remembrance of all this, she had the consciousness of being nine and twenty to give her some regrets and some apprehensions. She was fully satisfied of being still quite as handsome as ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, and would have rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited by baronet blood within the next twelve month or two. Then might she again take up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth, but now she liked it not. Always to be presented with the date of her own birth, and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil, and more than once when her father had left it open on the table near her, she had closed it with averted eyes and pushed it away. She had had a disappointment moreover which that book and especially the history of her own family must ever present the remembrance of. The heir presumptive, the very William Walter Elliot Esquire, whose rights had been so generally supported by her father, had disappointed her. She had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had known him to be in the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant to marry him, and her father had always meant that she should. He had not been known to them as a boy, but soon after Lady Elliot's death Sir Walter had sought the acquaintance, and though his overtures had not been met with any warmth, he had persevered in seeking it, making allowance for the modest drawing-back of youth. And in one of their spring excursions to London, when Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr. Elliot had been forced into the introduction. He was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the law, and Elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his favour was confirmed. He was invited to Kellynch Hall. He was talked of and expected all the rest of the year, but he never came. The following spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable, again encouraged, excited, and expected, and again he did not come, and the next tidings were that he was married. Instead of pushing his fortune in the line marked out for the heir of the House of Elliot, he had purchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of inferior birth. Sir Walter had resented it. As the head of the house, he felt that he ought to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so publicly by the hand. For they must have been seen together, he observed, once at Tattersall's, and twice in the lobby of the House of Commons. His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little regarded. Mr. Elliot had attempted no apology, and shown himself as unsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter considered him unworthy of it. All acquaintance between them had ceased. This very awkward history of Mr. Elliot was still, after an interval of several years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man for himself, and still more for being her father's heir, and whose strong family pride could see only in him a proper match for Sir Walter Elliot's eldest daughter. There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her feelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal. Yet so miserably had he conducted himself, that though she was at this present time, the summer of 1814, wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could not admit him to be worth thinking of again. The disgrace of his first marriage, might perhaps, as there was no reason to suppose it perpetuated by offspring, have been got over, had he not done worse. But he had, as by the accustomary intervention of kind friends they had been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of them all, most slightingly and contemptuously of the very blood he belonged to, and the honours which were hereafter to be his own. This could not be pardoned. Such were Elizabeth Elliot's sentiments and sensations. Such the cares to alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness and the elegance, the prosperity and the nothingness of her scene of life. Such the feelings to give interest to a long, uneventful residence in one country circle, to fill the vacancies which there were no habits of utility abroad, no talents or accomplishments for home to occupy. But now another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be added to these. Her father was growing distressed for money. She knew that when he now took up the baronetage it was to drive the heavy bills of his tradespeople and the unwelcome hints of Mr. Shepherd, his agent, from his thoughts. The Kellynch property was good, but not equal to Sir Walter's apprehension of the state required in its possessor. While Lady Elliot lived there had been method, moderation and economy which had just kept him within his income. But with her had died all such right-mindedness, and from that period he had been constantly exceeding it. It had not been possible for him to spend less. He had done nothing, but what Sir Walter Elliot was imperiously called on to do. But blameless as he was, he was not only growing dreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often that it became vain to attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his daughter. He had given her some hints of it the last spring in town. He had gone so far even as to say, Can we retrench? Does it occur to you that there is any one article in which we can retrench? And Elizabeth, to do her justice, had in the first order of female alarm, set seriously to think what could be done, and had finally proposed these two branches of economy, to cut off some unnecessary charities, and to refrain from new furnishing the drawing-room, to which expedience she afterwards added the happy thought of their taking no present down to Anne, as had been the usual yearly custom. But these measures, however good in themselves, were insufficient for the real extent of the evil, the whole of which Sir Walter found himself obliged to confess to her soon afterwards. Elizabeth had nothing to propose of deeper efficacy. She felt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her father, and they were neither of them able to devise any means of lessening their expenses without compromising their dignity, or relinquishing their comforts in a way not to be borne. There was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose of, but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no difference. He had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the power, but he would never condescend to sell. No, he would never disgrace his name so far. The Calentia State should be transmitted whole and entire as he had received it. Their two confidential friends, Mr. Shepard, who lived in the neighbouring market-town, and Lady Russell, were called on to advise them, and both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should be struck out by one or the other to remove their embarrassments, and reduce their expenditure without involving the loss of any indulgence of taste or pride. End of CHAPTER II This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Moira Fogarty. PERSUASION by Jane Austen. CHAPTER II Mr. Shepard, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold or his views on Sir Walter, would rather have the disagreeable prompted by anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and only begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent judgment of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he fully expected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see finally adopted. Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it much serious consideration. She was a woman rather of sound than of quick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this instance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles. She was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour, but she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings, as solicitous for the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was due to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be. She was a benevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments, most correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with manners that were held a standard of good-breeding. She had a cultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent. But she had prejudices on the side of ancestry. She had value for rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those who possessed them. Herself the widow of only a night, she gave the dignity of a baronet all its due. And Sir Walter, independent of his claims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, and a bliging landlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father of Anne and her sisters, was, as being Sir Walter in her apprehension, entitled to a great deal of compassion and consideration under his present difficulties. They must retrench. That did not admit of a doubt. But she was very anxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and Elizabeth. She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations, and she did what nobody else thought of doing. She consulted Anne, who never seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the question. She consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in marking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to Sir Walter. Every amundation of Anne's had been on the side of honesty against importance. She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete reformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of indifference for everything but justice and equity. If we can persuade your father to all this, said Lady Russell, looking over her paper, much may be done. If he will adopt these regulations, in seven years he will be clear, and I hope we may be able to convince him and Elizabeth that Kellynch Hall has a respectability in itself which cannot be affected by these reductions, and that the true dignity of Sir Walter Eliot will be very far from lessened in the eyes of sensible people by his acting like a man of principle. What will he be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have done or ought to do? There will be nothing singular in his case, and it is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering as it always does of our conduct. I have great hope of our prevailing. We must be serious and decided, for after all the person who has contracted debts must pay them, and though a great deal is due to the feelings of the gentleman and the head of a house like your father, there is still more due to the character of an honest man. This was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be preceding, his friends to be urging him. She considered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all the expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure, and saw no dignity in anything short of it. She wanted it to be prescribed and felt as a duty. She rated Lady Russell's influence highly, and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own conscience prompted, she believed there might be a little more difficulty in persuading them to a complete than to half a reformation. Her knowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the sacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of both, and so on through the whole list of Lady Russell's two gentle reductions. How Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little consequence. Lady Russell's had no success at all, could not be put up with, were not to be born. What! Every comfort of life knocked off? Journeys, London, servants, horses, table, contractions and restrictions everywhere, to live no longer with the decencies even of a private gentleman? No. He would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once, than remain in it on such disgraceful terms. Quit Kellynch Hall! The hint was immediately taken up by Mr. Shepard, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter's retrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done without a change of abode. Since the idea had been started in the very quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple, he said, in confessing his judgment to be entirely on that side. It did not appear to him that Sir Walter could materially alter his style of living in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient dignity to support. In any other place Sir Walter might judge for himself, and would be looked up to as regulating the modes of life in whatever way he might choose to model his household. Sir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall, and after a very few days more of doubt and indecision, the great question of whether he should go was settled, and the first outline of this important change made out. There have been three alternatives—London, Bath, or another house in the country. All Anne's wishes had been for the latter—a small house in their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell's society, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her ambition. But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something very opposite from her inclination fixed on. She disliked Bath, and did not think it agreed with her, and Bath was to be her home. Sir Walter had at first thought more of London, but Mr. Shepard felt that he could not be trusted in London, and had been skillful enough to dissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred. It was a much safer place for a gentleman in his predicament. He might there be important at comparatively little expense. Two material advantages of Bath over London had, of course, been given all their weight. It's more convenient distance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell spending some part of every winter there. And to the very great satisfaction of Lady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should lose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there. Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes. It would be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in his own neighbourhood. Anne, herself, would have found the mortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's feelings they must have been dreadful. And with regard to Anne's dislike of Bath, she considered it as a prejudice and a mistake arising, first from the circumstance of her having been three years at school there, after her mother's death, and secondly from her happening to be not imperfectly good spirits the only winter which she had afterward spent there with herself. Lady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must suit them all, and as to her young friend's health, by passing all the warm months with her at Kellynch Lodge every danger would be avoided, and it was in fact a change which must do both health and spirits good. Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits were not high. A larger society would improve them. She wanted her to be more known. The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for Sir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very material part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the beginning. He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the hands of others, a trial of fortitude which stronger heads than Sir Walter's have found too much. Kellynch Hall was to be led. This, however, was a profound secret not to be breathed beyond their own circle. Sir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to design letting his house. Mr. Shepard had once mentioned the word Advertise, but never dared approach it again. Sir Walter spurned the idea of its being offered in any manner, forbade the slightest hint being dropped of his having such an intention, and it was only on the supposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most unexceptionable applicant on his own terms, and as a great favour that he would let it at all. How quick come the reasons for approving what we like! Lady Russell had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir Walter and his family were to remove from the country. Elizabeth had been lately forming an intimacy which she wished to see interrupted. It was with the daughter of Mr. Shepard, who would return after an unprosperous marriage to her father's house, with the additional burden of two children. She was a clever young woman who understood the art of pleasing, the art of pleasing at least at Kellynch Hall, who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot as to have been already staying there more than once in spite of all that Lady Russell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of caution and reserve. Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and seemed to love her rather because she would love her than because Elizabeth deserved it. She had never received from her more than outward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complacence, had never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry against previous inclination. She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying to get Anne included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the injustice, and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which had shut her out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavored to give Elizabeth the advantage of her own better judgment and experience. But always in vain, Elizabeth would go her own way, and never had she pursued it in more decided opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs. Clay, turning from the society of so deserving a sister to bestow her affection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her but the object of distant civility. From situation Mrs. Clay was, in Lady Russell's, estimate a very unequal and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion, and a removal that would leave Mrs. Clay behind, and bring a choice of more suitable intimates within Miss Elliot's reach, was therefore an object of first rate importance. I must take leave to observe, Sir Walter, said Mr. Shepard one morning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the newspaper, that the present juncture is much in our favour. This peace will be turning all our rich naval officers ashore. They will be all wanting a home. Could not be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants, very responsible tenants. Many a noble fortune has been made during the war. If a rich admiral would to come in our way, Sir Walter, he would be a very lucky man, Shepard, replied Sir Walter. That's all I have to remark. A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him. Rather, the greatest prize of all let him have taken ever so many before. Hey, Shepard! Mr. Shepard laughed as he knew he must at this wit, and then added, I presume to observe, Sir Walter, that in the way of business, gentlemen of the navy are well to deal with. I have had a little knowledge of their methods of doing business, and I am free to confess that they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make desirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with. Therefore, Sir Walter, what I would take leave to suggest is, that if in consequence of any rumours getting abroad of your intention, which must be contemplated as a possible thing, because we know how difficult it is to keep the actions and designs of one part of the world from the notice and curiosity of the other, consequence has its tax. I, John Shepard, might conceal any family matters that I chose, for nobody would think it worth their while to observe me. But Sir Walter Eliot has eyes upon him, which it may be very difficult to allude, and therefore, thus much I venture upon, that it will not greatly surprise me of, with all our caution, some rumour of the truth should get abroad. In the supposition of which, as I was going to observe, since applications will unquestionably follow, I should think any from our wealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending to, and beg leave to add that two hours will bring me over at any time to save you the trouble of replying. Sir Walter only nodded, but soon afterwards, rising and pacing the room, he observed sarcastically. There are few among the gentlemen of the navy, I imagine, who would not be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description. They would look around them, no doubt, and bless their good fortune, said Mrs. Clay, for Mrs. Clay was present. Her father had driven her over, nothing being of so much use to Mrs. Clay's health as a drive to Kellynch. But I quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor might be a very desirable tenant. I have known a good deal of the profession, and besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful in all their ways. These valuable pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if you choose to leave them, would be perfectly safe. Everything in and about the house would be taken such excellent care of. The gardens and shrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as they are now. You would need not be afraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being neglected. As to all that rejoined Sir Walter coolly. Supposing I were induced to let my house. I have by no means made up my mind as to the privileges to be annexed to it. I am not particularly disposed to favour a tenant. The park would be open to him, of course, and few navy officers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range. But what restrictions I might impose on the use of the pleasure grounds is another thing. I am not fond of the idea of my shrubberies being always approachable, and I should recommend Miss Elliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden. I am very little disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any extraordinary favour, I assure you, be he sailor or soldier. After a short pause, Mr. Shepherd presumed to say, In all these cases there are established usages which make everything plain and easy between landlord and tenant. Your interest, Sir Walter, is in pretty safe hands. Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant has more than his just rights. I venture to hint that Sir Walter Elliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be for him. Here Anne spoke. The navy, I think, who have done so much for us, have at least an equal claim with any other set of men, for all the comforts and all the privileges which any home cannot give. Sailors work hard enough for their comforts. We must all allow. Very true, very true. What Miss Anne says is very true, as Mr. Shepherd's rejoinder, and—oh, certainly—was his daughter's. But Sir Walter's remark was soon afterwards. The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to see any friend of mine belonging to it. Indeed was the reply, and with a look of surprise. Yes, it is in two points offensive to me. I have two strong grounds of objection to it. First, as being the means of bringing persons of obscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honors which their fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of. And secondly, as it cuts up a man's youth and vigor most horribly, a sailor grows old sooner than any other man. I have observed it all my life. A man is in greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one whose father his father might have disdained to speak to, and of becoming prematurely an object of disgust himself than in any other line. One day last spring in town I was in company with two men, striking instances of what I am talking of—Lord St. Ives, whose father we all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat. I was to give place to Lord St. Ives, and to certain admiral Baldwin, the most deplorable-looking person that you can imagine. His face, the colour of mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree, all lines and wrinkles, nine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top. In the name of heaven, who is that old fellow, said I, to a friend of mine who is standing near, Sir Basil Morley. Old fellow! cried Sir Basil. It is Admiral Baldwin. What do you take his age to be? Sixty, said I, or perhaps sixty-two. Forty, replied Sir Basil, forty and no more. Picture to yourselves my amazement. I shall not easily forget Admiral Baldwin. I never saw a quite so wretched an example of what a seafaring life can do, but to a degree. I know it is the same with them all. They are all knocked about and exposed to every climate and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen. It is a pity they are not knocked on the head at once before they reach Admiral Baldwin's age. Nay, Sir Walter! cried Mrs. Clay. This is being severe indeed. Have a little mercy on the poor men. We are not all born to be handsome. The sea is no beautifier, certainly. Sailors do grow old but times. I have often observed it. They soon lose the look of youth. But then is it not the same with many other professions, perhaps most others? Soldiers, in active service, are not at all better off, and even in the quieter professions there is a toil and a labour of the mind if not of the body, which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect of time. The lawyer plods, quite careworn, the physician is up at all hours and travelling in all weather, and even the clergyman. She stopped a moment to consider what might do for the clergyman. And even the clergyman, you know, is obliged to go into infected rooms and expose his health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere. In fact, as I have long been convinced, though every profession is necessary and honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who are not obliged to follow any who can live in a regular way, in the country, choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and living on their own property, without the torment of trying for more. It is only their lot, I say, to hold the blessings of health and a good appearance to the utmost. I know no other set of men but what lose something of their personableness when they cease to be quite young. It seemed as if Mr. Shepard, in this anxiety to bespeak Sir Walter's goodwill towards a naval officer as a tenant, had been gifted with foresight, for the very first application for the house was from an admiral Croft, with whom he shortly afterwards fell into company in attending the quarter sessions at Taunton. And indeed, he had received a hint of the admiral from a London correspondent. By the report which he hastened over to Kellynch to make, admiral Croft was a native of Somersetshire, who, having acquired very handsome fortune, was wishing to settle in his own country, and had come down to Taunton in order to look at some advertised places in that immediate neighbourhood, which, however, had not suited him. That accidentally hearing, it was just as he had foretold Mr. Shepard observed Sir Walter's concerns could not be kept a secret. Accidentally hearing of the possibility of Kellynch Hall being to let, and understanding his, Mr. Shepard's, connection with the owner, he had introduced himself to him in order to make particular inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long conference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a man who knew it only by description could feel, and given Mr. Shepard, in his explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most responsible, eligible tenant. And who is admiral Croft, was Sir Walter's cold, suspicious inquiry? Mr. Shepard answered for his being of a gentleman's family, and mentioned a place, and Anne, after the little pause which followed, added, He is a rear admiral of the White. He was in the Trafalgar action, and has been in the East Indies since. He has been stationed there, I believe, several years. Then I take it for granted, observed Sir Walter, that his face is about as orange as the cuffs and capes of my livery. Mr. Shepard hastened to assure him that Admiral Croft was a very hail, party, well-looking man, a little weather-beaten, to be sure, but not much, and quite the gentleman in all his notions and behavior, not likely to make the smallest difficulty about terms, only wanted a comfortable home, and to get into it as soon as possible. Knew he must pay for his convenience, knew what rent a ready furnished house of that consequence might fetch, should not have been surprised if Sir Walter had asked more, had inquired about the manner, would be glad of the deputation certainly, but made no great point of it, said he sometimes took out a gun, but never killed. Quite the gentleman. Mr. Shepard was eloquent on the subject, pointing out all the circumstances of the Admiral's family, which made him particularly desirable as a tenant. He was a married man, and without children, the very state to be wished for. A house was never taken good care of, Mr. Shepard observed, without a lady. He did not know whether furniture might not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as where there were many children. A lady without a family was the very best preserver of furniture in the world. He had seen Mrs. Croft, too. She was at Taunton with the Admiral, and had been present almost all the time they were talking the matter over. And a very well-spoken, genteel shrewd lady she seemed to be, continued he, asked more questions about the house and terms and taxes than the Admiral himself, and seemed more conversant with business. And moreover, Sir Walter, I found she was not quite unconnected in this country any more than her husband. That is to say, she is sister to a gentleman who did live amongst us once. She told me so herself. Sister to the gentleman who lived a few years back at Monkford. Bless me, what was his name? At this moment I cannot recollect his name, though I have heard it so lately. Penelope, my dear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at Monkford? Mrs. Croft's brother. But Mrs. Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot that she did not hear the appeal. I have no conception who you can mean, Shepard. I remember no gentleman resident at Monkford since the time of old Governor Trent. Oh, bless me! How very odd! I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose. A name that I am so very well acquainted with, knew the gentleman so well by sight. Seen him a hundred times. He came to consult me, once I remember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours. Farmer's man, breaking into his orchard, wall torn down, apples stolen, caught in the fact, and afterwards, contrary to my judgement, submitted to an amicable compromise. Very odd indeed. After waiting another moment— You mean Mr. Wentworth, I suppose, said Anne? Mr. Shepard was all gratitude. Wentworth was the very name. Mr. Wentworth was the very man. He had the curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two or three years. Came there about the year—um, ought five, I take it? You remember him, I am sure. Mr. Wentworth! Oh, I! Mr. Wentworth, the curate of Monkford! You misled me by the term gentleman. I thought you were speaking of some man of property. Mr. Wentworth was nobody, I remember. Quite unconnected. Nothing to do with the Stratford family. One wonders how the names of many of our nobility become so common. As Mr. Shepard perceived that this connection of the Crofts did them no service with Sir Walter, he mentioned it no more, returning with all his zeal to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their favour, their age and number and fortune, the high idea that they had formed of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of renting it, making it appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the happiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter Elliot. An extraordinary taste, certainly, could they have been supposed in the secret of Sir Walter's estimate of the dues of a tenant. It succeeded, however, and though Sir Walter must ever look with an evil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them infinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked into allowing Mr. Shepard to proceed in the treaty, and authorizing him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still remained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen. Sir Walter was not very wise, but still he had experienced enough of the world to feel that a more unobjectionable tenant in all essentials than Admiral Croft would fare to be, could hardly offer. So far went his understanding, and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing in the Admiral's situation in life, which was just high enough and not too high. I have let my house to Admiral Croft would sound extremely well, very much better than to any mere mister. A mister, save perhaps some half-dozen in the nation, always needs a note of explanation. An Admiral speaks his own consequence, and at the same time can never make a baronet look small. In all their dealings and intercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence. Nothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth, but her inclination was growing so strong for a removal that she was happy to have it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand, and not a word to suspend decision was uttered by her. Mr. Shepherd was completely empowered to act, and no sooner had such an end been reached than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to the whole, left the room to seek the comfort of cool air for her flushed cheeks, and as she walked along a favourite grove said, with a gentle sigh, A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here. CHAPTER IV He was not Mr. Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St. Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire in the summer of 1806, and having no parent living, found a home for half a year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy, and Anne, an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love, but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted, and one acquainted, rapidly, and deeply in love. It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest, she, in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted. A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one. Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He thought it a very degrading alliance, and Lady Russell, though with more temperate and pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one. Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw herself away at nineteen, involve herself at nineteen in an engagement with the young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain profession, and no connections to secure even his further rise in that profession, would be indeed a throwing away which she grieved to think of. Anne Elliot, so young, known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger, without alliance or fortune, or rather, sunk by him into a state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence. It must not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from one who had almost a mother's love and mother's rights, it would be prevented. Anne Wentworth had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession, but spending freely what had come freely had realized nothing. But he was confident that he should soon be rich, full of life and ardour. He knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to everything he wanted. He had always been lucky. He knew he should be so still. Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and bewitching in the wit, which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne. But Lady Russell saw it very differently. His sanguine temper and fearlessness of mind operated very differently on her. She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil. It only added a dangerous character to himself. He was brilliant. He was head strong. Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to imprudence, a horror. She deprecated the connection in every light. Such opposition as these feelings produced was more than Anne could combat. Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible to withstand her father's ill will, though unsophoned by one kind word or look on the part of her sister. But Lady Russell, whom she had always loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion and such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain. She was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing, indiscreet, improper, hardly capable of success and not deserving it. But it was not a merely selfish caution under which she acted in putting an end to it. Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given him up. The belief of being prudent and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation under the misery of a parting, a final parting. And every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of opinions on his side totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his feeling himself ill-used by so forced a relinquishment. He had left the country in consequence. A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance, but not with a few months ended and share of suffering from it. Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect. More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close. And time had softened down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him. But she had been too dependent on time alone. No aid had been given in change of place except in one visit to Bath, soon after the rupture, or in any novelty or enlargement of society. No one had ever come within the Kellynch Circle who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he stood in her memory. No second attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and sufficient cure at her time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, and the small limits of the society around them. She had been solicited, when about two and twenty, to change her name by the young man who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger sister, and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal, for Charles Musgrove was the eldest son of a man whose landed property and general importance was second in that country only to Sir Walters, and of good character and appearance, and however Lady Russell might have asked yet for something more while Anne was nineteen. She would have rejoiced to see her at twenty-two, so respectably removed from the partialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so permanently near herself. But in this case Anne had left nothing for advice to do, and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the past undone. She began now to have the anxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted by some man of talents and independence to enter a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits. They knew not, each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change, on the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never alluded to. But Anne, at seven and twenty, thought very differently from what she had been made to think at nineteen. She did not blame Lady Russell. She did not blame herself for having been guided by her. But she felt that were any young person in similar circumstances to apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good. She was persuaded that under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every anxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in maintaining the engagement than she had been in the sacrifice of it. And this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than a usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs, without reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it happened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be reasonably calculated on. All his sanguine expectations, all his confidence, had been justified. His genius and ardor had seemed to foresee and to command his prosperous path. He had, very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ, and all that he had told her would follow had taken place. He had distinguished himself, and early gained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures, have made a handsome fortune. She had only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich, and in favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married. How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been? How eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attachment and a cheerful confidence in futurity against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust providence. She had been forced into prudence in her youth. She learned romance as she grew older, the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning. With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not hear that Captain Wentworth's sister was likely to live at Kellynch without a revival of former pain, and many a stroll and many a sigh were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea. She often told herself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently to feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no evil. She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and apparent unconsciousness among the only three of her own friends in the secret of the past which seemed almost to deny any recollection of it. She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives in this over those of her father and Elizabeth. She could honour all the better feelings of her calmness, but the general air of oblivion among them was highly important from whatever expung. And in the event of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew over the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the past being known to those three only among her connections, by whom no syllable she believed would ever be whispered, and in the trust that among his, the brother only with whom he had been residing had received any information of their short-lived engagement. That brother had been long removed from the country, and being a sensible man, and moreover a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no human creatures having heard of it from him. The sister, Mrs. Croft, had them been out of England, accompanying her husband on a foreign station, and her own sister Mary had been at school while it all occurred, and never admitted by the pride of some and the delicacy of others to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards. With these supports she hoped that the acquaintance between herself and the Croft's, which, with Lady Russell still resident in Kellynch, and Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not involve any particular awkwardness. On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs. Croft seeing Kellynch Hall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady Russell's, and keep out of the way till all was over. When she found it most natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing them. This meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided the whole business at once. Each lady was previously well disposed for an agreement, and saw nothing therefore but good manners in the other, and with regard to the gentleman there was such a hearty good humour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral's side as could not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into his very best and most polished behaviour by Mr. Shepard's assurances of his being known by report to the Admiral as a model of good breeding. The house and grounds and furniture were approved, the Croft's were approved, terms, time, everything, and everybody was right, and Mr. Shepard's clerks were set to work, without there having been a single preliminary difference to modify of all that this indenture showeth. Sir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the best-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say that if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should not be ashamed of being seen with him anywhere. And the Admiral, with sympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through the park. I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite of what they told us at Taunton. The Baronet will never set the Thames on fire, but there seems no harm in him. Reciprocal compliments which would have been esteemed, about equal. The Croft's were to have possession at Mikkelmus, and as Sir Walter proposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there was no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement. Lady Russell convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any use, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were going to secure. It was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon, and wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind, till she might convey her to Bath herself after Christmas. But having engagements of her own, which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was unable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne, though dreading the possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and grieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the autumnal months in the country, did not think that everything considered she wished to remain. It would be most right, and most wise, and therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others. Something occurred, however, to give her a different duty. Mary, often a little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own complaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was the matter, was indisposed, and foreseeing that she should not have a day's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it was hardly entreaty, to come to Upper Cross Cottage, and bear her company as long as she could want her, instead of going to Bath. I cannot possibly do without Anne, was Mary's reasoning, and Elizabeth's reply was, that I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody will want her in Bath. To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least better than being rejected as no good at all, and Anne, glad to be thought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and certainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own dear country, readily agreed to stay. This invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's difficulties, and it was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till Lady Russell took her, and that all the intervening times should be divided between Upper Cross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge. So far all was perfectly right, but Lady Russell was almost startled by the wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall Plan, when it burst on her, which was Mrs. Clay's being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and Elizabeth as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in all the business before her. Lady Russell was extremely sorry that such a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved, and feared, and the affront it contained to Anne in Mrs. Clay's being of so much use, while Anne could be of none, was of very sore aggravation. Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts, but she felt the imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell. With a great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge which she often wished less of her father's character, she was sensible that results the most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than possible. She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea of the kind. Mrs. Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a clumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon in her absence. But she was young, and certainly all together well-looking, and possessed in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners, infinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might have been. Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger that she could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her sister. She had little hope of success, but Elizabeth, who in the event of such a reverse would be so much more to be pity than herself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for giving no warning. She spoke, and seemed only to offend. Elizabeth could not conceive how such an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered for each party's perfection, knowing their situation. Mrs. Clay, said she warmly, never forgets who she is, and as I am rather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, I can assure you that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly nice, and that she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more strongly than most people. And as to my father, I really should not have thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our sakes, need be suspected now. If Mrs. Clay were a very beautiful woman, I grant you it might be wrong to have her so much with me, not that anything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a degrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy. But poor Mrs. Clay, who with all her merits can never have been reckoned tolerably pretty, I really think poor Mrs. Clay may be staying here in perfect safety. One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her personal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times. That tooth of hers, and those freckles. Freckles do not disgust me so very much, as they do him. I have known a face not materially disfigured by a few, but he abominates them. You must have heard him notice Mrs. Clay's freckles. There is hardly any personal defect, replied Anne, which an agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one too. I think very differently, answered Elizabeth, shortly. An agreeable manner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones. However, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this point than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you to be advising me. Anne had done. Glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of doing good. Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be made observant by it. The last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter, Miss Elliot, and Mrs. Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good spirits. Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the afflicted tenetry and cottagers who might have had a hint to show themselves, and Anne walked up at the same time in a sort of desolate tranquility to the lodge, where she was to spend the first week. Her friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady Russell felt this breakup of the family exceedingly. Their respectability was as dear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by habit. It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still worse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into, and to escape the solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out of the way when Admiral and Mrs. Croft first arrived, she had determined to make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne. Accordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at Upper Cross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell's journey. Upper Cross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had been completely in the old English style, containing only two houses superior in appearance to those of the yeoman and labourers. The mansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees, substantial and unmodernized, and the compact tight parsonage, enclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear tree trained round its casements. But upon the marriage of the young squire it had received the improvement of a farmhouse elevated into a cottage for his residence. And Upper Cross Cottage, with its veranda, French windows, and other prettinesses, was quite as likely to catch the traveller's eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and premises of the great house, about a quarter of a mile further on. Here Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Upper Cross as well as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually meeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's house at all hours, that it was rather surprised to her to find Mary alone. But being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits, was almost a matter of course. Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary had not Anne's understanding nor temper. While well and happy and properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits. But any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for solitude. And, inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot's self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of fancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person she was inferior to both sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of being a fine girl. She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty little drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been gradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two children. And on Anne's appearing greeted her with, Oh, so you are come at last! I began to think I should never see you. I am so ill I can hardly speak. Oh, I have not seen a creature the whole morning. I am sorry to find you unwell, reply damn. You sent me such a good account of yourself on Thursday. Yes, I made the best of it. I always do. But I was very far from well at the time. And I do not think I was ever so ill in my life as I have been all this morning. Very unfit to be left alone, I'm sure. Suppose I were seized, if a sudden, in some dreadful way, and not able to ring the bell. So Lady Russell would not get out. I do not think she has been in this house three times this summer. Anne said what was proper, and inquired after her husband. Oh, Charles is out shooting. I have not seen him since seven o'clock. He would go, though I told him how ill I was. He said he should not stay out long, but he has never come back, and it is now almost one. I assure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning. You have had your little boys with you? Oh, yes, as long as I could bear their noise. But they are so unmanageable that they do me more harm than good. Little Charles does not mind a word I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad. Well, you will soon be better now, replied Anne cheerfully. You know I always cure you when I come. How are your neighbours at the Great House? I can give you no account of them. I have not seen one of them to-day, except Mr. Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but without getting off his horse. And though I told him how ill I was, not one of them have been near me. It did not happen to suit the Miss Musgrove's I suppose, and they never put themselves out of their way. You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone. It is early. Oh, I never want them, I assure you. They talk and laugh a great deal too much for me. Oh, Anne, I am so very unwell. It was quite unkind of you not to come on Thursday. My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of yourself. You wrote in the cheerfulness manner, and said you were perfectly well and in no hurry for me. And that being the case, you must be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell till the last. And besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so busy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have left Kellynch sooner. Dear me, what can you possibly have to do? Great many things, I assure you. More than I can recollect in a moment. But I can tell you some. I have been making a duplicate of the catalogue of my father's books and pictures. I have been several times in the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand and make him understand which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell. I have had all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide, and all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what was intended as to the wagons. And one thing I have had to do, Mary, of a more trying nature, going to almost every house in the parish as a sort of take-leave. I was told that they wished it, but all these things took up a great deal of time. Oh, well! And after a moment's pause. But you have never asked me one word about our dinner at the pools yesterday. Did you go, then? I have made no inquiries, because I concluded you must have been obliged to give up the party. Oh, yes! I went. I was very well yesterday. Nothing at all mattered with me till this morning. It would have been strange if I had not gone. I am very glad you are well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant party. Oh, nothing remarkable! One always knows beforehand what the dinner will be, and who will be there. And it is so very uncomfortable not having a carriage of one's own. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove took me, and we were so crowded. They were both so very large, and take up so much room, and Mr. Musgrove always sits forward. So there was I, crowded into the backseat with Henrietta and Louisa, and I think it very likely that my illness today may be owing to it. A little further perseverance and patience, and forced cheerfulness on Anne's side, produced nearly a cure on Mary's. She could soon sit upright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by dinnertime. Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end of the room, beautifying a nose-gay. Then she ate her cold meat, and then she was well enough to propose a little walk. Where shall we go? said she, when they were ready. I suppose you will not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see you. I have not the smallest objection on that account, replied Anne. I should never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so well as Mrs. and the Miss Musgroves. Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible. They ought to feel what is due to you as my sister. However, we may as well go and sit with them a little while, and when we have got that over we can enjoy our walk. Anne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent, but she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that, though there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither family could now do without it. To the Great House accordingly they went, to sit the full half-hour in the old-fashioned square parlor with a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters of the House were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a grand piano forte and a harp, flower stands and little tables placed in every direction. Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the Wainscott, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an overthrow of all order and neatness, the portraits themselves seem to be staring in astonishment. The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration, perhaps of improvement. The father and mother were in the old English style, and the young people in the new. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove were a very good sort of people, friendly and hospitable, not much educated, and not at all elegant. Their children had more modern minds and manners. There was a numerous family, but the only two grown up, accepting Charles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen and twenty, who had brought from a school at Exeter all the usual stock of accomplishments, and were now, like thousands of other young ladies, living to be fashionable, happy, and merry. Their dress had every advantage. Their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely good, their manners unembarrassed and pleasant. They were of consequence at home, and favourites abroad. Anne always contemplated them as some of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance, but still, saved as we all are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments, and envied them nothing but that seemingly perfect, good understanding and agreement together, that good-humoured mutual affection of which she had her known so little herself with either of her sisters. They were received with great cordiality. Nothing seemed to miss on the side of the great house family, which was generally, as Anne very well knew, the least to blame. The half-hour was chatted away pleasantly enough, and she was not at all surprised, at the end of it, to have their walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves at Mary's particular invitation. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Anne had not wanted this visit to Upper Cross to learn that a removal from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and idea. She had never been staying there before, without being struck by it, or without wishing that other Alliots could have her advantage in seeing how unknown or unconsidered there, with the affairs which at Kellynch Hall, were treated as of such general publicity and pervading interest. Yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now submit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own nothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her. For certainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which had been completely occupying both houses in Kellynch for many weeks, she had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in the separate but very similar remark of Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove. So, Miss Anne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone, and what part of Bath do you think they will settle in? And this, without much waiting for an answer, or in the young lady's addition of, I hope we shall be in Bath in the winter, but remember, Papa, if we do go we must be in a good situation, none of your Queen's squares for us, or in the anxious supplement from Mary of, upon my word, I shall be pretty well off when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath. She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think with heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one such truly sympathizing friend as Lady Russell. The Mr. Musgrove's had their own game to guard and to destroy, their own horses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully occupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbors, dress, dancing, and music. She acknowledged it to be very fitting that every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of discourse, and hoped ere long to become a not unworthy member of the one she was now transplanted into. With the prospect of spending at least two months at Upper Cross, it was highly incumbent on her to clothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of Upper Cross as possible. She had no dread of these two months. Mary was not so repulsive and unsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers. Neither was there anything among the other component parts of the cottage inimical to comfort. She was always on friendly terms with her brother-in-law, and in the children who loved her nearly as well, and respected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of interest, amusement, and wholesome exertion. Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable. In sense and temper he was undoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers or conversation or grace to make the past as they were connected together, at all a dangerous contemplation. Though, at the same time, Anne could believe with Lady Russell that a more equal match might have greatly improved him, and that a woman of real understanding might have given more consequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and elegance to his habits and pursuits. As it was, he did nothing with much zeal but sport, and his time was otherwise trifled away without benefit from books or anything else. He had very good spirits, which never seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with her unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's admiration, and upon the whole, though there was very often a little disagreement, in which she had sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both parties, they might pass for a happy couple. They were always perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination for a handsome present from his father. But here, as on most topics, he had the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such a present was not made, he always contended for his father's having many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked. As to the management of their children, his theory was much better than his wife's, and his practice not so bad. I could manage them very well, if it were not for Mary's interference, was what Anne often heard him say, and had a good deal of faith in. But when listening in turn to Mary's approach of, Charles spoils the children so that I cannot get them into any order. She never had the smallest temptation to say, very true. One of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there, was her being treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too much in the secret of the complaints of each house. Known to have some influence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least receiving hints to exert it beyond what was practicable. I wish you could persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill, was Charles's language. And, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary. I do believe if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was anything the matter with me. I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might persuade him that I really am very ill, a great deal worse than I ever own. Mary's declaration was, I hate sending the children to the great house, though their grandmama is always wanting to see them, for she humours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much trash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross for the rest of the day. And Mrs. Musgrove took the first opportunity of being alone with Anne, to say, Oh, Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing Mrs. Charles had a little of your method with those children. They are quite different creatures with you. But to be sure, in general, they are so spoiled. It's a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of managing them. They are as fine, healthy children as ever were seen, poor little dears, without partiality. But Mrs. Charles knows no more how they should be treated. Ah, bless me, how troublesome they are sometimes. I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them at our house so often, as I otherwise should. I believe Mrs. Charles is not quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener, but you know it is very bad to have children with one, that one is obliged to be checking every moment. Don't do this, and don't do that. Or that one can only keep intolerable order by more cake than is good for them. She had this communication moreover from Mary. Mrs. Musgrove thinks all her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in question. But I am sure, without exaggeration that her upper housemaid and laundrymaid, instead of being in their business, are gadding about the village all day long. I meet them wherever I go, and I declare I never go twice into my nursery, without seeing something of them. If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her, for she tells me they are always tempting her to take a walk with them. And on Mrs. Musgrove's side it was, I make a rule of never interfering in any of my daughter-in-law's concerns, for I know it would not do. But I shall tell you, Miss Ann, because you may be able to set things to rights, that I have no very good opinion of Mrs. Charles's nursery maid. I hear strange stories of her. She is always upon the gad, and from my own knowledge I can declare she is such a fine dressing lady, that she is enough to ruin any servants she comes near. Mrs. Charles quite swears by her I know, but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the watch, because if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of mentioning it. Again, it was Mary's complaint that Mrs. Musgrove was very apt not to give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the great house with other families, and she did not see any reason why she was to be considered so much at home as to lose her place. And one day, when Ann was walking with only the Miss Musgroves, one of them, after talking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, I have no scruple of observing to you how nonsensical some persons are about their place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you are about it. But I wish anybody would give Mary a hint that it would be a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if she would not be always putting herself forward to take place of Mama. Nobody doubts her right to have precedence of Mama, but it would be more becoming in her not to be always insisting on it. It is not that Mama cares about it at least in the world, but I know it is taken notice of by many persons. How was Ann to set all these matters to rights? She could do little more than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to the other, give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between such near neighbors, and make those hints broadest, which were meant for her sister's benefit. In all other respects her visit began and proceeded very well. Her own spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed three miles from Kellynch. Mary's ailments lessened by having a constant companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family, since there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment in the cottage to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage. It was certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every morning and hardly ever spent an evening asunder. But she believed they should not have done so well without the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the talking, laughing, and singing of their daughters. She played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgrove's, but having no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents to sit by and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought of, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well aware. She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to herself, but this was no new sensation. Accepting one short period of her life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to or encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste. In music she had been always used to feel alone in the world, and Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove's fond partiality for their own daughter's performance, and total indifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for their sakes than mortification for her own. The party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company. The neighborhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by everybody, and had more dinner parties and more callers, more visitors by invitation and by chance than any other family. They were more completely popular. The girls were wild for dancing, and the evenings ended occasionally in an unpremeditated little ball. There was a family of cousins within a walk of upper cross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on the Musgroves for all their pleasures. They would come at any time, or help to play at anything, or dance anywhere. And Anne, very much preferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country dances to them by the hour together. A kindness which always recommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove more than anything else, and often drew this compliment. Well done, Miss Anne, very well done indeed! Lord bless me how those little fingers of yours fly about! So passed the first three weeks. Michael Miss came, and now Anne's heart must be in Kellynch again. A beloved home made over to others. All the precious rooms and furniture, groves and prospects, beginning to own other eyes and other limbs. She could not think of much else on the 29th of September, and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening from Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month, exclaimed, Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to Kellynch? I am glad I did not think of it before. How low it makes me! The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be visited. Mary deplored the necessity for herself. Nobody knew how much she should suffer. She should put it off as long as she could, but was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on an early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary agitation when she came back. Anne had very sincerely rejoiced in there being no means of her going. She wished, however, to see the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned. They came. The master of the house was not at home, but the two sisters were together, and as a chance that Mrs. Croft fell to the share of Anne, while the admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very agreeable by his good humored notice of her little boys, she was well able to watch for likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to catch it in the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression. Mrs. Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness, and vigor of form which gave importance to her person. She had bright, dark eyes, good teeth, and altogether and agreeable face, though her reddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her having been almost as much a sea as her husband, made her seem to have lived some years longer in the world than her real eight and thirty. Her manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust of herself, and no doubts of what to do, without any approach to coarseness, however, or any want of good humor. Anne gave her credit, indeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself in all that related to Kellynch, and it pleased her, especially as she had satisfied herself in the very first half-minute, in the instant even of introduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge or suspicion on Mrs. Croft's side to give a bias of any sort. She was quite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage, till for a moment electrified by Mrs. Croft's only saying, It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the pleasure of being acquainted with when he was in this country. Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing, but the age of emotion she certainly had not. Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married, added Mrs. Croft. She could now answer as she ought, and was happy to feel when Mrs. Croft's next words explained it to be Mr. Wentworth of whom she spoke, that she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She immediately felt how reasonable it was that Mrs. Croft should be thinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick, and with shame at her own forgetfulness, applied herself to the knowledge of their former neighbour's present state with proper interest. The rest was all tranquility, till, just as they were moving, she heard the admiral say to Mary, We are expecting a brother of Mrs. Croft's here soon. I dare say you know him by name. He was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to him like an old friend, and declaring he should not go, and being too much engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pocket, etc., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had begun. Anne was left to persuade herself, as well she could, that the same brother must still be in question. She could not, however, reach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether anything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the Crofts had previously been calling. The folks of Great House were to spend the evening of this day at the cottage, and it being now too late in the year for such visits to be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the youngest Miss Musgrove walked in. That she was coming to apologise, and that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the first black idea, and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa made all right by saying that she only came on foot to leave more room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage. And I will tell you our reason, she added, and all about it. I am come on to give you notice that Papa and Mama are out of spirits this evening, especially Mama. She is thinking so much of poor Richard, and we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse her more than the piano forte. I will tell you why she is out of spirits. When the Crofts called this morning, they called here afterwards, did not they? They happened to say that her brother, Captain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or something, and is coming to see them almost directly. And most unluckily it came into Mama's head when they were gone, that Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's Captain at one time. I do not know when or where, but a great while before he died, poor fellow, and upon looking over his letters and things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard. So we must all be, as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon such gloomy things. The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were, that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son, and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year, that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and unmanageable on shore, that he had been very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved. seldom heard of, and scarcely at all, regretted, when the intelligence of his death abroad had worked its way to Upper Cross two years before. He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him by calling him poor Richard, been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead. He had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those removals, to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such midshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on board Captain Frederick Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia, and from the Laconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only two letters which his father and mother had ever received from him during the whole of his absence. That is to say, the only two disinterested letters, all the rest had been mere applications for money. In each letter he had spoken well of his captain, but yet so little were they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and incurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made scarcely any impression at the time, and that Mrs. Musgrove should have been suddenly struck this very day with the recollection of the name of Wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary bursts of mind which do sometimes occur. She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed, and the re-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son gone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had affected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into a greater grief for him than she had known on first hearing of his death. Mr. Musgrove was, in a lesser degree, affected likewise, and when they reached the cottage they were evidently in want first of being listened to anew on this subject, and afterwards of all the relief which cheerful companions could give. To hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name so often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it might, that it probably would turn out to be the very same Captain Wentworth whom they recollected meeting once or twice, after their coming back from Clifton, a very fine young man, but they could not say whether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to Anne's nerves. She found, however, that it was one to which she must endure herself. Since he actually was expected in the country, she must teach herself to be insensible on such points, and not only did it appear that he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves in their warm gratitude for the kindness he had shown poor Dick, and very high respect for his character, stamped as it was by poor Dick's having been six months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not perfectly well-spelled praise, as a fine dashing fellow, only two particular about the schoolmaster, were bent on introducing themselves and seeking his acquaintance as soon as they could hear of his arrival. The resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening. End of Chapter 6. Recorded in Toronto, Ontario, by Moira Fogarty, April 2008