 CHAPTER XV So Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place. A lofty, dignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence, and both he and Elizabeth were settled there much to their satisfaction. Anne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of many months, and anxiously saying to herself, Oh, when shall I leave you again? A degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome she received, did her good. Her father and sister were glad to see her, for the sake of showing her the house and furniture, and met her with kindness. Her making a fourth when they sat down to dinner was noticed as an advantage. Mrs. Clay was very pleasant and very smiling, but her courtesies and smiles were more a matter of course. Anne had always felt that she would pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complacence of the others was unlooked for. They were evidently in excellent spirits, and she was soon to listen to the causes. They had no inclination to listen to her. After laying out for some compliments of being deeply regretted in their old neighborhood, which Anne could not pay, they had only a few faint inquiries to make before the talk must be all their own. Up across excited no interest, Kellynch, very little, it was all Bath. They had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath more than answered their expectations in every respect. Their house was undoubtedly the best in Camden Place, their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages over all the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the superiority was not less in the style of the fitting up or the taste of the furniture. Their acquaintance was exceedingly sought after. Everybody was wanting to visit them. They had drawn back from many introductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by people of whom they knew nothing. Here were funds of enjoyment. Could Anne wonder that her father and sister were happy? She might not wonder, but she must sigh that her father should feel no degradation in his change, should see nothing to regret in the duties and dignity of the resident land-holder, should find so much to be in vain of in the littlenesses of a town, and she must sigh and smile and wonder, too, as Elizabeth threw open the folding-doors and walked with exaltation from one drawing-room to the other, boasting of their space, at the possibility of that woman, who had been mistress of Kellynch Hall, finding extent to be proud of between two walls, perhaps thirty feet asunder. But this was not all which they had to make them happy. They had Mr. Elliot, too. Anne had a great deal to hear of Mr. Elliot. He was not only pardoned, they were delighted with him. He had been in Bath about a fortnight. He had passed through Bath in November, in his way to London, when the intelligence of Sir Walter's being settled there had, of course, reached him, though only twenty-four hours in the place, but he had not been able to avail himself of it. But he had now been a fortnight in Bath, and his first object on arriving had been to leave his card in Camden Place, following it up by such assiduous endeavours to meet, and when they did meet by such great openness of conduct, such readiness to apologise for the past, such solicitude to be received as a relation again, that their former good understanding was completely re-established. They had not a fault to find in him. He had explained away all the appearance of neglect on his own side. It had originated in misapprehension entirely. He had never had any idea of throwing himself off. He had feared that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and delicacy had kept him silent. Upon the hint of having spoken disrespectfully or carelessly of the family and the family honours he was quite indignant. He, who had ever boasted of being an Elliot, and whose feelings as to connection were only too strict to suit the unfuelled tone of the present day. He was astonished, indeed, but his character and general conduct must refute it. He could refer Sir Walter to all who knew him, and certainly the pains he had been taking on this, the first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the footing of a relation and air presumptive, was a strong proof of his opinions on the subject. The circumstances of his marriage, too, were found to admit of much extenuation. This was an article not to be entered on by himself, but a very intimate friend of his, a Colonel Wallace, a highly respectable man, perfectly the gentleman, and not an ill-looking man, Sir Walter Abbott, who was living in very good style in Marlborough buildings and had, at his own particular request, been admitted to their acquaintance through Mr. Elliot, had mentioned one or two things relative to the marriage, which made a material difference in the discredit of it. Colonel Wallace had known Mr. Elliot long, had been well acquainted also with his wife, had perfectly understood the whole story. She was certainly not a woman of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich, and excessively in love with his friend. There had been the charm. She had sought him. Without that attraction, not all her money would have tempted Elliot, and Sir Walter was, moreover, assured of her having been a very fine woman. Here was a great deal to soften the business. A very fine woman with a large fortune in love with him. Sir Walter seemed to admit it as a complete apology, and though Elizabeth could not see the circumstance in quite so favourable a light, she allowed it to be a great extenuation. Mr. Elliot had called repeatedly, had died with them once, evidently delighted by the distinction of being asked, for they gave no dinners in general, delighted in short by every proof of cousinly notice, and placing his whole happiness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place. Anne listened, but without quite understanding it. Allowances, large allowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke. She heard it all under embellishment. All that sounded extravagant or irrational in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin but in the language of the relators. Still, however, she had the sensation of there being something more than immediately appeared in Mr. Elliot's wishing, after an interval of so many years, to be well received by them. In a worldly view he had nothing to gain by being on terms with Sir Walter, nothing to risk by a state of variance. In all probability he was already the richer of the two, and the Kellynch's state would as surely be his hereafter as the title. A sensible man, and he had looked very like a sensible man, why should it be an object to him? She could only offer one solution. It was, perhaps, for Elizabeth's sake. There might really have been a liking formally, though convenience and accident had drawn him a different way, and now that he could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay his addresses to her. Elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with well-bred, elegant manners, and her character might never have been penetrated by Mr. Elliot, knowing her but in public, and when very young himself. How her temper and understanding might bear the investigation of his present, keener time of life was another concern, and rather a fearful one. Most earnestly did she wish that he might not be too nice or too observant if Elizabeth were his object, and that Elizabeth was disposed to believe herself so, and that her friend Mrs. Clay was encouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or two between them, while Mr. Elliot's frequent visits were talked of. Anne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at Lyme, but without being much attended to. Oh, yes, perhaps it had been Mr. Elliot they did not know. It might be him, perhaps. They could not listen to her description of him they were describing him themselves, Sir Walter especially. He did justice to his very gentlemanlike appearance, his air of elegance and fashion, his good-shaped face, his sensible eye, but at the same time must lament his being very much under-hung, a defect which time seemed to have increased, nor could he pretend to say that ten years had not altered almost every feature for the worse. Mr. Elliot appeared to think that he, Sir Walter, was looking exactly as he had done when they last parted. But Sir Walter had not been able to return the compliment entirely, which had embarrassed him. He did not mean to complain, however. Mr. Elliot was better to look at than most men, and he had no objection of being seen with him anywhere. Mr. Elliot and his friends in Marlborough buildings were talked of the whole evening. Colonel Wallace had been so impatient to be introduced to them, and Mr. Elliot so anxious that he should. And there was a Mrs. Wallace, at present known only to them by description, as she was in daily expectation of her confinement. But Mr. Elliot spoke of her as a most charming woman, quite worthy of being known in Camden Place, and as soon as she recovered they were to be acquainted. Sir Walter thought much of Mrs. Wallace. She was said to be an excessively pretty woman, beautiful. He longed to see her. He hoped she might make some amends for the very many plain faces he was continually passing in the streets. The worst of Bath was the number of its plain women. He did not mean to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of the plain was out of all proportion. He had frequently observed, as he walked, that one handsome face would be followed by thirty or five and thirty frights, and once, as he had stood in a shop on Bond Street, he had counted eighty-seven women go by, one after another, without there being a tolerable face among them. It had been a frosty morning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a thousand could stand the test of. But still, there certainly were a dreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath, and as for the men they were infinitely worse. Such scare-crows as the streets were full of. It was evident how little the women were used to the sight of anything tolerable by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced. He had never walked anywhere, arm in arm, with Colonel Wallace, who was a fine military figure, though sandy-haired, without observing that every woman's eye was upon him. Every woman's eye was sure to be upon Colonel Wallace—modest, Sir Walter. He was not allowed to escape, however. His daughter and Mrs. Clare united in hinting that Colonel Wallace's companion might have as good a figure as Colonel Wallace, and certainly was not sandy-haired. How is Mary looking? said Sir Walter, in the height of his good humour. The last time I saw her she had a red nose, but I hope that may not happen every day. Oh no! That must have been quite accidental. In general, she has been in very good health and very good look since Mickelmas. If I thought it would not tempt her to go out in sharp winds and grow coarse, I would send her a new hat and police. Anne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a gown or a cap would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the door suspended everything. A knock at the door, and so late, it was ten o'clock. Could it be Mr. Eliot? They knew he was to dine in Landsdown Crescent. It was possible that he might stop in his way home to ask them how they did. They could think of no one else. Mrs. Clare decidedly thought it Mr. Eliot's knock. Mrs. Clare was right. With all the state which a butler and foot-boy could give, Mr. Eliot was ushered into the room. It was the same, the very same man, with no difference but of dress. Anne drew a little back while the others received his compliments, and her sister his apologies for calling it so unusual an hour. But he could not be so near without wishing to know that neither she nor her friend had taken cold the day before, etc., etc., which was all as politely done, and as politely taken as possible. But her part must follow then. So Walter talked of his youngest daughter. Mr. Eliot must give him leave to present his youngest daughter—there was no occasion for remembering Mary—and Anne, smiling and blushing, very becomingly showed to Mr. Eliot the pretty features which he had by no means forgotten, and instantly saw, with amusement at his little start of surprise, that he had not been at all aware of who she was. He looked completely astonished, had not more astonished than pleased, his eyes brightened, and with the most perfect alacrity he welcomed the relationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received as an acquaintance already. He was quite as good-looking as he had appeared at Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so exactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly agreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one person's manners. They were not the same, but they were perhaps equally good. He sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much. There could be no doubt of his being a sensible man. Ten minutes were enough to clarify that. His tone, his expressions, his choice of subject, his knowing where to stop—it was all the operation of a sensible, discerning mind. As soon as he could, he began to talk to her of Lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting the place, but especially wanting to speak of the circumstance of there happening to be guests in the same inn at the same time, to give his own route, understanding something of hers, and regret that he should have lost such an opportunity of paying his respects to her. She gave him a shorter count of her party and business at Lyme. His regret increased as he listened. He had spent his whole solitary evening in the room adjoining theirs, had heard voices, mirth continually, thought they must be a most delightful set of people, long to be with them, but certainly without the smallest suspicion of his possessing the shadow of a right to introduce himself. If he had but asked who the party were, the name of Musgrove would have told him enough. While it would serve to cure him of an absurd practice of never asking a question at an inn, which he had adopted when quite a young man, on the principle of its being very ungentile to be curious. The notions of a young man of one or two and twenty said he, as to what is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more absurd, I believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world. The folly of the means they often employ is only to be equaled by the folly of what they have in view. But he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne alone. He knew it. He was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at intervals that he could return to Lyme. His enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she had been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place. Having alluded to an accident, he must hear the whole. When he questioned, Sir Walter and Elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in their manner of doing it could not be unfelt. She could only compare Mr. Elliott to Lady Russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had passed, and in the degree of concern for what she must have suffered in witnessing it. He stayed an hour with them. The elegant little clock on the mantelpiece had struck eleven with its silver sounds, and the watchman was beginning to be heard at a distance telling the same tale, before Mr. Elliott or any of them seemed to feel that he had been there long. Anne could not have supposed it possible that her first evening in Camden Place could have passed so well. CHAPTER 16 There was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have been more thankful to ascertain even that Mr. Elliott's being in love with Elizabeth, which was, her father's not being in love with Mrs. Clay. And she was very far from easy about it, when she had been at home a few hours. On going down to breakfast the next morning, she found there had just been a decent pretense on the lady's side of meaning to leave them. She could imagine Mrs. Clay to have said that now Miss Anne was come she could not suppose herself at all wanted. For Elizabeth was replying in a sort of whisper, that must not be any reason indeed. I assure you I feel it none. She is nothing to me compared with you. And she was in full time to hear her father say, my dear madam, this must not be, as yet you have seen nothing of Bath. You have been here only to be useful. You must not run away from us now. You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs. Wallace, the beautiful Mrs. Wallace. To your fine mind I well know the sight of beauty is a real gratification. He spoke and looked so much in earnest that Anne was not surprised to see Mrs. Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth and herself. Her countenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness, but the praise of the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister. The lady could not but yield to such joint entreaties and promise to stay. In the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be alone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks. He thought her less thin in her person, in her cheeks, her skin, her complexion greatly improved. Clearer, fresher. Had she been using anything in particular? No, nothing. Merely gaulant, he supposed. No, nothing at all. Ha! He was surprised at that, and added, certainly you cannot do better than to continue as you are. You cannot be better than well, or I should recommend gaulant, the constant use of gaulant during the spring months. Mrs. Clay has been using it at my recommendation, and you see what it has done for her. You see how it has carried away her freckles. If Elizabeth could have but heard this, such personal praise might have struck her, especially as it did not appear to Anne that the freckles were at all lessened. But everything must take its chance. The evil of a marriage would be much diminished if Elizabeth were also to marry. As for herself, she might always command a home with Lady Russell. Lady Russell's composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial on this point in her intercourse in Camden Place. The sight of Mrs. Clay in such favour, and of Anne so overlooked, was a perpetual provocation to her there, and vexed her as much when she was away as a person in bath who drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and has a very large acquaintance, has time to be vexed. As Mr. Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more indifferent towards the others. His manners were an immediate recommendation, and on conversing with him, she found the solid so fully supporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne, almost ready to exclaim, can this be Mr. Elliot, and could not seriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable man. Everything united in him, good understanding, correct opinions, knowledge of the world, and a warm heart. He had strong feelings of family attachment and family honour without pride or weakness. He lived with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display. He judged for himself and everything essential, without defying public opinion in any point of worldly decorum. He was steady, observant, moderate, candid, never run away with by spirits or by selfishness which fancied itself strong feeling, and yet, with a sensibility to what was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the felicities of domestic life, which characters of fancied enthusiasm and violent agitation seldom really possess. She was sure that he had not been happy in marriage. Colonel Wallace said it, and Lady Russell saw it. But it had been no unhappiness to sour his mind, nor, she began pretty soon to suspect, to prevent his thinking of a second choice. Her satisfaction in Mr. Elliot outweighed all the plague of Mrs. Clay. It was now some year since Anne had begun to learn that she and her excellent friend could sometimes think differently, and it did not surprise her, therefore, that Lady Russell should see nothing suspicious or inconsistent, nothing to require more motives than appeared in Mr. Elliot's great desire of a reconciliation. In Lady Russell's view, it was perfectly natural that Mr. Elliot, at a mature time of life, should feel it a most desirable object, and what would very generally recommend him among all sensible people to be on good terms with the head of his family. The simplest process in the world of time upon a head naturally clear, and only erring in the heyday of youth. Anne presumed, however, still to smile about it, and at last to mention Elizabeth. Lady Russell listened, and looked, and made only this cautious reply. Elizabeth! Very well! Time will explain. It was a reference to the future which Anne, after a little observation, felt she must submit to. She could determine nothing at present. In that house, Elizabeth must be first, and she was in the habit of such general observance as Miss Elliot, that any particularity of attention seemed almost impossible. Mr. Elliot, too, it must be remembered, had not been a widow as seven months. A little delay on his side might be very excusable. In fact, Anne could never see the crepe round his head, without fearing that she was the inexcusable one, in attributing to him such imaginations. Although his marriage had not been very happy, still it had existed so many years, that she could not comprehend a very rapid recovery from the awful impression of its being dissolved. However it might end, he was without any question their pleasantest acquaintance in Bath. She saw nobody equal to him, and it was a great indulgence now and then to talk to him about Lyme, which he seemed to have as lively a wish to see again, and to see more of, as herself. They went through the particulars of their first meeting a great many times. He gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some earnestness. She knew it well, and she remembered another person's look also. They did not always think alike. His value for rank and connection she perceived was greater than hers. It was not merely complacence, it must be a liking to the cause, which made him enter warmly into her father and sister's solicitudes on a subject which she thought unworthy to excite them. The Bath paper one morning announced the arrival of the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple and her daughter, the Honorable Miss Carteret, and all the comfort of number Camden Place was swept away for many days, for the Dalrymples, in Anne's opinion most unfortunately, were cousins of the Elliotts, and the agony was how to introduce themselves properly. Anne had never seen her father and sister before in contact with nobility, and she must acknowledge herself disappointed. She had hoped better things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and was reduced to form a wish which she had never foreseen, a wish that they had more pride, for our cousins, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, our cousins, the Dalrymples, sounded in her ears all day long. So Walter had once been in company with the late Viscount, but had never seen any of the rest of the family, and the difficulties of the case arose from there having been a suspension of all intercourse by letters of ceremony, ever since the death of that said late Viscount, when in consequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter's at the same time, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch. No letter of condolence had been sent to Ireland. The neglect had been visited on the head of the sinner, for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no letter of condolence was received at Kellynch, and consequently, there was but too much reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered the relationship as closed. How to have this anxious business set to rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question. And it was a question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady Russell nor Mr. Elliot thought unimportant. Family connections were always worth preserving, good company always worth seeking. Lady Dalrymple had taken a house for three months in Laura Place, and would be living in style. She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had heard her spoken of as a charming woman. It was very desirable that the connection should be renewed, if it could be done, without any compromise of propriety on the side of the Elliot's. Sir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a very fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty to his right honourable cousin. Neither Lady Russell nor Mr. Elliot could admire the letter. But it did all that was wanted, in bringing three lines of scrawl from the dowage of I Countess. She was very much honoured, and should be happy in their acquaintance. The toils of the business were over. The sweets began. They visited in Laura Place. They had the cards of dowage of I Countess Dalrymple and the honourable Miss Cartridge to be arranged wherever they might be most visible. And our cousins in Laura Place—our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Cartridge—were talked of to everybody. Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created. But they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of a charming woman, because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. Miss Cartridge, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for her birth. Lady Russell confessed she had expected something better. But yet it was an acquaintance worth having. And when Anne ventured to speak her opinion of them to Mr. Elliot, he agreed to there being nothing in themselves, but still maintained that as a family connection, as good company, as those who would collect good company around them, they had their value. Anne smiled and said, "'My idea of good company, Mr. Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation. That is what I call good company.' "'You are mistaken,' said he gently. "'That is not good company. That is the best.' "'Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education it is not very nice. Birth and good manners are essential. But a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company. On the contrary, it will do very well.' My cousin Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin, sitting down by her. You have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman I know. But will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the society of those good ladies in Laura Place and enjoy all the advantages of the connection as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank as rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family—our family, let me say—in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for." "'Yes,' sighed Anne, we shall indeed be known to be related to them.' Then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added, I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose, smiling, I have more pride than any of you, but I confess it does vex me that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them. "'Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London, perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say. But in Bath, so Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing—always acceptable as acquaintance.' "'Well,' said Anne, I certainly am proud—too proud to enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place. I love your indignation,' said he. It is very natural. But here you are in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk of being proud. I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself otherwise, for our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little different. In one point I am sure, my dear cousin, he continued speaking lower, though there was no one else in the room. In one point I am sure we must feel alike. We must feel that every addition to your father's society among his equals or superiors may be of use in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him. He looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs. Clay had been lately occupying—a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant. And though Anne could not believe in there having the same sort of pride, she was pleased with him for not liking Mrs. Clay, and her conscience admitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting-great acquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her. CHAPTER XVII While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good fortune in law-replace, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very different description. She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there being an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on her attention of past kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs. Smith, had shown her kindness in one of those periods of her life when it had been most valuable. Anne had gone unhappy to school, grieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling her separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of strong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time. And Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the want of near-relations and a settled home remaining another year at school, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably lessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference. Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was said to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had known of her, till now that their governess's account brought her situation forward in a more decided but very different form. She was a widow and poor. Her husband had been extravagant, and at his death about two years before had left his affairs dreadfully involved. She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and in addition to these distresses, had been afflicted with a severe rheumatic fever, which finally settling in her legs had made her for the present a cripple. She had come to Bath on that account, and was now in lodgings near the hot Baths, living in a very humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost excluded from society. Their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from Miss Elliot would give Mrs. Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in going. She mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she intended at home. It would excite no proper interest there. She only consulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and was most happy to convey her as near to Mrs. Smith's lodgings in Westgate buildings as Anne chose to be taken. The visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest in each other more than rekindled. The first ten minutes had its awkwardness and its emotion, twelve years were gone since they had parted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the other had imagined. Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming, silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of seven and twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as consciously right as they were invariably gentle. And twelve years had transformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow of health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless widow, receiving the visit of her former protégé as a favour. But all that was uncomfortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left only the interesting charm of remembering former partialities, and talking over old times. Anne found in Mrs. Smith the good sense and agreeable manners which she had almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be cheerful beyond her expectation. Neither the dissipations of the past, and she had lived very much in the world, nor the restrictions of the present, neither sickness nor sorrow, seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her spirits. In the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and Anne's astonishment increased. She could scarcely imagine a more cheerless situation in itself than Mrs. Smith's. She had been very fond of her husband, she had buried him. She had been used to affluence, it was gone. She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest supportable. Her accommodations were limited to a noisy parlor and a dark bedroom behind, with no possibility of moving from one to the other without assistance, which there was only one servant in the house to afford, and she never quitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath. Yet in spite of all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of anger and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment. How could it be? She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined that this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only. A submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here was something more. Here was that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good and a finding employment which carried her out of herself, which was from nature alone. It was the choicest gift of heaven, and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which, by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost every other want. There had been a time, Mrs. Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly failed. She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her state on first reaching bath. Then she had indeed been a pitiable object, for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken possession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and suffering under severe and constant pain. And all this amongst strangers, with the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at that moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense. She had weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her good. It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be in good hands. She had seen too much of the world to expect sudden nor disinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her ill. And she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in that house when unemployed, chance to be at liberty just in time to attend her. And she, said Mrs. Smith, besides nursing me most admirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I could use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great amusement. And she put me in the way of making these little thread cases, pin cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so busy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good to one or two very poor families in this neighborhood. She had a large acquaintance, of course, professionally, among those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise. She always takes the right time for applying. Everybody's heart is open, you know, when they have recently escaped from severe pain or are recovering the blessing of good health, and Nurse Rook thoroughly understands when to speak. She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. Hers is a line for seeing human nature, and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who, having only received the best education in the world, know nothing worth attending to. Call it gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rook has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable, something that makes one no one's species better. One likes to hear what is going on, to be your fares to the newest modes of being trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a treat. Anne, far from wishing to cavill at the pleasure, replied, I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent, may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing, and it is not merely in its follies that they are well read, for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation, of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most, a sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes. Yes, said Mrs. Smith more doubtingly, sometimes it may, though I fear its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and there human nature may be great in times of trial, but generally speaking it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber. It is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world, and unfortunately, speaking low and tremulously, there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late. Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a passing emotion, however, with Mrs. Smith. She shook it off, and soon added in a different tone, I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs. Rook is in at present will furnish much, either to interest or edify me. She is only nursing Mrs. Wallace of Marlborough Buildings, a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable woman, I believe, and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and finery. I mean to make my profit of Mrs. Wallace, however. She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the high-priced things I have in hand now. Anne had called several times on her friend before the existence of such a person was known in Camden Place. At last it became necessary to speak of her. So Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs. Clay returned one morning from Laura Place with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple for the same evening, and Anne was already engaged to spend that evening in Westgate Buildings. She was not sorry for the excuse. They were only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at home by a bad cold was glad to make use of the relationship which had been so pressed on her, and she declined on her own account with greater lackrity. She was engaged to spend the evening with an old school fellow. They were not much interested in anything relative to Anne, but still, there were questions enough asked to make it understood what this old school fellow was, and Elizabeth was disdainful and so Walter severe. Westgate Buildings said he, and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be visiting in Westgate Buildings, and Mrs. Smith, a widow Mrs. Smith, and who was her husband, one of five thousand Mr. Smiths whose names are to be met with everywhere, and what is her attraction, that she is old and sickly? Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most extraordinary taste. Everything that revolts other people—low company, poultry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations—are inviting to you, but surely you may put off this old lady till tomorrow. She is not so near her end, I presume, but that she may hope to see another day. What is her age? Forty? No, sir. She is not one in thirty. But I do not think I can put off my engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will at once suit her and myself. She goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and for the rest of the week you know we are engaged. But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance? asked Elizabeth. She sees nothing to blame in it, replied Anne. On the contrary, she approves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs. Smith. Westgate buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance of a carriage drawn up near its pavement, observed Sir Walter. Sir Henry Russell's widow indeed has no honours to distinguish her arms, but still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to convey him Miss Elliot. A widow Mrs. Smith lodging in Westgate buildings, a poor widow barely able to live between thirty and forty, a mere Mrs. Smith and every day Mrs. Smith of all people in all names in the world to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred by her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and Ireland, Mrs. Smith, such a name! Mrs. Clay, who had been present while all this past, now thought it advisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did long to say a little in defence of her friends not very dissimilar claims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father prevented her. She made no reply. She left it to himself to recollect that Mrs. Smith was not the only widow in bath between thirty and forty with little to live on, and no surname of dignity. Anne kept her appointment, the others kept theirs, and of course she heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. She had been the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not only been quite at the ladyship's service themselves, but had actually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had been at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr. Elliot, and Mr. Elliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallace early, and Lady Russell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait on her. Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could supply from Lady Russell. To her, its greatest interest must be in having been very much talked of between her friend and Mr. Elliot, in having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for staying away in such a cause. Her kind, compassionate visits to this old school fellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr. Elliot. He thought her a most extraordinary young woman, in her temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. He could meet even Lady Russell in discussion of her merits, and Anne could not be given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations which her friend meant to create. Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr. Elliot. She was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time, as of his deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She would not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the subject. She would venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance supposing such attachment to be real and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations. She only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head. "'I am no matchmaker, as you well know,' said Lady Russell, being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations. I only mean that if Mr. Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there would be every possibility of you being happy together. A most suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be a very happy one. "'Mr. Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I think highly of him,' said Anne, "'but we should not suit.' Lady Russell let this past, and only said in rejoinder, "'I own that to be able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's place, succeeding to all her rights and all her popularity, as well as to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. You are your mother's self-incontinence and disposition, and if I might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in being more highly valued, my dearest Anne, it would give me more delight than is often felt at my time of life. Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment, tried to subdue the feelings his picture excited. For a few moments her imagination and her heart were bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been, of having the precious name of Lady Elliot first revived in herself, of being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own operation, and believing that, could Mr. Elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken for himself. She believed, in short, what Anne did not believe. The same image of Mr. Elliot speaking for himself brought Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch and of Lady Elliot all faded away. She never could accept him. And it was not only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one. Her judgment, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a case, was against Mr. Elliot. Though they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied that she really knew his character, that he was a sensible man, an agreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to judge properly, and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough. He certainly knew what was right. Nor could she fix on any one article of moral duty evidently transgressed, but yet she would have been afraid to answer for his conduct. She distrusted the past, if not the present. The names which occasionally dropped of former associates, the allusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not favourable of what he had been. She saw that there had been bad habits, that Sunday travelling had been a common thing, that there had been a period of his life, and probably not a short one, when he had been, at least, careless in all serious matters. And though he might now think very differently, who could answer for the true sentiments of a clever, cautious man grown old enough to appreciate a fair character? How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly cleansed? Mr. Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight at the evil or good of others. This, to Anne, was a decided imperfection. Her early impressions were incurable. She prized the frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. Warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her still. She felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped. Mr. Elliot was too generally agreeable. Various as were the tempers in her father's house, he pleased them all. He endured too well, stood too well with everybody. He had spoken to her with some degree of openness of Mrs. Clay, had appeared completely to see what Mrs. Clay was about, and to hold her in contempt, and yet Mrs. Clay found him as agreeable as anybody. Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw nothing to excite distrust. She could not imagine a man more exactly what he ought to be than Mr. Elliot, nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter feeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved Anne in Kellynch Church in the course of the following autumn. CHAPTER XVIII It was the beginning of February, and Anne, having been a month in Bath, was growing very eager for news from up across and Lime. She wanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated. It was three weeks since she had heard it all. She only knew that Henrietta was at home again, and that Louisa, though considered to be recovering fast, was still in Lime. And she was thinking of them all very intently one evening, when a thicker letter than usual from Mary was delivered to her, and to quicken the pleasure and surprise with Admiral and Mrs. Croft's compliments. The Crofts must be in Bath. A circumstance to interest her. They were people whom her heart turned to very naturally. What is this? cried Sir Walter. The Crofts have arrived in Bath. The Crofts who rent Kellynch. What have they brought you? A letter from up across Cottage, sir. Oh! those letters are convenient passports. They secure an introduction. I should have visited Admiral Croft, however, at any rate. I know what is my due to my tenant. Anne could listen no longer. She could not even have told how the poor Admiral's complexion escaped. Her letter engrossed her. It had been begun several days back. My dear Anne, I make no apology for my silence, because I know how little people think of letters in such a place as Bath. You must be a great deal too happy to care for up across, which, as you well know, affords little to write about. We have had a very dull Christmas. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove have not had one dinner-party all the holidays. I do not reckon the haters is anybody. The holidays, however, are over at last. I believe no children ever had such a long ones. I am sure I had not. The house was cleared yesterday except of the little Harvils. But you will be surprised to hear they have never gone home. Mrs. Harvill must be an odd mother to part with them so long. I do not understand it. They are not at all nice children, in my opinion, but Mrs. Musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not better, than her grandchildren. What dreadful weather we have had! It may not be felt in Bath with your nice pavements, but in the country it is of some consequence. I have not had a creature call on me since the second week of January except Charles Hater, who had been calling much oftener than was welcome. Between ourselves, I think it a great pity Henrietta did not remain at Lyme as long as Louisa. It would have kept her a little out of his way. The carriage is gone to-day to bring Louisa in the Harvils to-morrow. We are not asked to dine with them, however, till the day after. Mrs. Musgrove is so afraid of her being fatigued by the journey, which is not very likely considering the care that will be taken of her, and it would be much more convenient to me to dine there to-morrow. I am glad you find Mr. Elliot so agreeable, and I wish I could be acquainted with him too, but I have my usual luck. I am always out of the way when anything desirable is going on, always the last of my family to be noticed. What an immense time Mrs. Clay has been staying with Elizabeth. Does she never mean to go away? But perhaps if she were to leave the room vacant, we might not be invited. Let me know what you think of this. I do not expect my children to be asked, you know. I can leave them at the Great House very well, for a month or six weeks. I have this moment heard that the Crofts are going to Bath almost immediately. They think the Admiral gouty. Charles heard it quite by chance. They have not had the civility to give me any notice, or of offering to take anything. I do not think they improve at all as neighbours. We see nothing of them, and this is really an instance of gross inattention. Charles joins me in love and everything proper, yours affectionately, Mary M. I am sorry to say that I am very far from well, and Jemima has just told me that the Butcher says there is a bad sore throat very much about. I daresay I shall catch it, and my sore throats, you know, are always worse than any body's. So ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an envelope containing nearly as much more. I kept my letter open that I might send you word how Louisa bore her journey, and now I am extremely glad I did, having a great deal to add. In the first place, I had a note from Mrs. Croft yesterday, offering to convey anything to you, a very kind, friendly note, indeed, addressed to me, just as it ought. I shall therefore be able to make my letter as long as I like. The Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely hope Bath will do him all the good he wants. I shall be truly glad to have them back again. Our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant family. But now, for Louisa, I have something to communicate that will astonish you, not a little. She and the Harvils came on Tuesday very safely, and in the evening we went to ask her how she did, when we were rather surprised not to find Captain Benwick of the party, for he had been invited as well as the Harvils. And what do you think was the reason? Neither more nor less than his being in love with Louisa, and not choosing to venture to up across till he had had an answer from Mr. Musgrove. For it was all settled between him and her before she came away, and he had written to her father by Captain Harvill, true upon my honour. Are not you astonished? I shall be surprised at least if you ever received a hint of it, for I never did. Mrs. Musgrove protest solemnly that she knew nothing of the matter. We are all very pleased, however, for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain Wentworth, it is infinitely better than Charles Hater, and Mr. Musgrove has written his consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day. Mrs. Harvill says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister's account, but, however, Louisa is a great favourite with both. Indeed, Mrs. Harvill and I quite agree that we love her the better for having nursed her. Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say, but if you remember, I never thought him attached to Louisa. I never could see anything of it. And this is the end you see of Captain Benwick's being supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles could take such a thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me. I hope he will be more agreeable now. Certainly not a great match for Louisa Musgrove, but a million times better than marrying among the haters. Mary need not have feared her sister's being in any degree prepared for the news. She had never in her life been more astonished. Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! It was almost too wonderful for belief, and it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room, preserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the moment. Happily for her they were not many. So Walter wanted to know whether the Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they were likely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss Elliot and himself to visit in, but had little curiosity beyond. How is Mary? said Elizabeth, and without waiting for an answer, and pray what brings the Crofts to Bath? They come on the admiral's account. He is thought to be gouty. Gout and decrepitude, said Sir Walter, poor old gentleman. Have they any acquaintance here? asked Elizabeth. I do not know, but I can hardly suppose that at Admiral Croft's time of life and in his profession he should not have many acquaintance in such a place as this. I suspect, said Sir Walter coolly, that Admiral Croft will be best known in Bath as the renter of Kellynch Hall. Elizabeth, may we renter to present him and his wife in Laura Place? Oh, no, I think not. Situated as we are with Lady de Rimpel, cousins, we ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she might not approve. If we were not related it would not signify, but as cousins she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours. We had better leave the Crofts to find their own level. There are several odd-looking men walking about here who, I am told, are sailors. The Crofts will associate with them. This was Sir Walter and Elizabeth's share of interest in the letter. When Mrs. Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an inquiry after Mrs. Charles Musgrove and her fine little boys, Anne was at Liberty. In her own room she tried to comprehend it. Well, might Charles wonder how Captain Wentworth would feel? Perhaps he had quitted the field, had given Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her. She could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin to ill usage between him and his friend. She could not endure that such a friendship as theirs should be severed unfairly. Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! The high-spirited, joyous talking Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading Captain Benwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other. Their minds most dissimilar. Where could have been the attraction? The answer soon presented itself. It had been in situation. They had been thrown together several weeks. They had been living in the same small family party. Since Henrietta's coming away they must have been depending almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering from illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain Benwick was not inconsolable. That was a point which Anne had not been able to avoid suspecting before, and instead of drawing the same conclusion as Mary from the present course of events, they served only to confirm the idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself. She did not mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her vanity than Mary might have allowed. She was persuaded that any tolerably pleasing young woman, who had listened and seemed to feel for him, would have received the same compliment. He had an affectionate heart. He must love somebody. She saw no reason against their being happy. Louisa had fine naval fervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike. He would gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott and Lord Byron. Nay, that was probably learnt already. Of course they had fallen in love of a poetry. The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned into a person of literary taste and sentimental reflection was amusing, but she had no doubt of its being so. The day at Lyme, the fall from the cob, might influence her health, her nerves, her courage, her character, to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it appeared to have influenced her fate. The conclusion of the whole was that if the woman who had been sensible of Captain Wentworth's merits could be allowed to prefer another man, there was nothing in the engagement to excite lasting wonder. And if Captain Wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly nothing to be regretted. No, it was not regret which made Anne's heart beat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks when she thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and free. She had some feelings which she was ashamed to investigate. They were too much like joy, senseless joy. She longed to see the crafts, but when the meeting took place, it was evident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them. The visit of ceremony was paid and returned, and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned and Captain Bedeck too, without even half a smile. The crafts had placed themselves in lodgings in Gay Street, perfectly to Sir Walter's satisfaction. He was not at all ashamed of the acquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about the admiral than the admiral ever thought or talked about him. The crafts knew quite as many people in Bath as they wished for, and considered their intercourse with the Elliot's as a mere matter of form, and not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure. They brought with them their country habit of being almost always together. He was ordered to walk to keep off the gout, and Mrs. Croft seemed to go shares with him in everything, and to walk for her life to do him good. Anne saw them wherever she went. Lady Russell took her out in her carriage almost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never failed to see them. Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most attractive picture of happiness to her. She always watched them as long as she could, delighted to fancy she understood what they might be talking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally delighted to see the admiral's hearty shake of the hand when he encountered an old friend, and observed their eagerness of conversation when occasionally forming into a little knot of the navy, Mrs. Croft looking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around her. Anne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be often walking herself, but it so happened one morning about a week or ten days after the Croft's arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or her friend's carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone to Camden Place, and in walking up Millson Street, she had the good fortune to meet with the admiral. He was standing by himself at a print-shop window with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation of some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was obliged to touch, as well as address him, before she could catch his notice. When he did perceive an acknowledger, however, it was done with all his usual frankness and good humour. Ah! is it you? Thank you, thank you. This is treating me like a friend. Here I am, you see, staring at a picture. I can never get by this shop without stopping. But what a thing here is by way of a boat. Do look at it. Did you ever see the like? What queer fellows your fine painters must be to think that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless old cockle-shell as that? And yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it, mightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and mountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they certainly must be. I wonder where that boat was built, laughing heartily. I would not venture over a horse-pond in it. Well, turning away, now, where are you bound? Can I go anywhere for you or with you? Can I be of any use? None, I thank you. Unless you will give me the pleasure of your company the little way our road lies together, I am going home. That I will, with all my heart, and farther too. Yes, yes. We will have a snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go along. There, take my arm. That's right. I do not feel comfortable if I have not a woman there. Lord, what a boat it is! Taking a last look at the picture as they began to be in motion. Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir? Yes, I have, presently. But here comes a friend, Captain Bridgen. I shall only say, how do you do as we pass, however? I shall not stop. How do you do? Bridgen stares to see any body with me but my wife. She, poor soul, is tied by the leg. She has a blister on one of her heels, as large as a three-chilling piece. If you look across the street, you will see Admiral Brand coming down, and his brother, three fellows, both of them. I am glad they are not on this side of the way. Sophie cannot bear them. They played me a pitiful trick once, got away with some of my best men. I will tell you the whole story another time. There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson. Look, he sees us. He kisses his hand to you. He takes you for my wife. Ah, the piece has come too soon for that, Yonker. Poor old Sir Archibald. How do you like Bath, Miss Elliot? It suits us very well. We're always meeting with some old friend or other. The street's full of them every morning. Sure to have plenty of chat. And then we get away from them all and shut ourselves in our lodgings and row in our chairs, and are snug as if we were at Kellynch. Aye. Or as we used to be even at North Yarmouth in deal. We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I can tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North Yarmouth. The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same way. When they were gone a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for what he had to communicate. She hoped when clear of Milsom Street to have her curiosity gratified. But she was still obliged to wait. For the Admiral had made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the greater space and quiet of Belmont. And as she was not really Mrs. Croft, she must let him have his own way. As soon as they were fairly ascending Belmont, he began. Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you. But first of all you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk about. That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned for. The Miss Musgrove that all this has been happening to. Her Christian name. I always forget her Christian name. Anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really did. But now she could safely suggest the name of Louisa. Aye, aye, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name. I wish young ladies had not such a number of fine Christian names. I should never be out if they were all Sophie's or something of that sort. Well, this Miss Louisa, we all thought you know, was to marry Frederick. He was courting her week after week. The only wonder was what they should be waiting for, till the business at Lyme came. Then indeed it was clear enough that they must wait till her brain was set to write. But even then there was something odd in their way of going on. Instead of staying at Lyme he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see Edward. When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edwards, and there he has been ever since. We have seen nothing of him since November. Even Sophie could not understand it. But now the matter has taken the strangest turn of all. For this young lady, this same Miss Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James Benwick—you know James Benwick—a little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick. Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are married already, for I do not know what they should wait for. I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man, said Anne, and I understand that he bears an excellent character. Oh, yes, yes. There is not a word to be said against James Benwick. He is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad times for getting on. But he has not another thought that I know of. An excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you. A very active zealous officer, too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice. Indeed, you are mistaken there, sir. I should never augur want of spirit from Captain Benwick's manners. I thought them particularly pleasing, and I will answer for it. They would generally please. Well, well, ladies are the best judges. But James Benwick is rather too piano for me. And though very likely it is all our partiality, Sophie and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his. There is something about Frederick more to our taste. Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the two common idea of spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly be. And after a little hesitation she was beginning to say, I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends, but the admiral interrupted her with, and the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have had it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Upper Cross. I fancy they are all at Upper Cross. This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist. She said therefore, I hope, admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs. Croft particularly uneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa Musgrove, but I hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side equally and without violence. I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man. Not at all, not at all. There is not an oath or a murmur from beginning to end. Anne looked down to hide her smile. No, no. Frederick is not a man to whine and complain. He has too much spirit for that. If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit she should have him. Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear you know, without its being absolutely said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort. Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at all of that nature in the letter. He does not give the least fling at Benwick. Does not so much as say, I wonder at it. I have a reason of my own for wondering at it. No, you would not guess, from his way of writing, that he had ever thought of this Miss—what's her name—for himself. He very handsomely hopes they will be happy together, and there is nothing very unforgiving in that, I think. And did not receive the perfect conviction which the admiral meant to convey, but it would have been useless to press the inquiry further. She therefore satisfied herself with commonplace remarks or quiet attention, and the admiral had it all his own way. "'Poor Frederick,' said he at last, "'now he must begin all over again with somebody else. I think we must get him to bath. Sophie must write, and beg him to come to bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am sure. It would be of no use to go to up-across again, for that other Miss Musgrove I find is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson. Do not you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to bath.'" CHAPTER XIX While Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne and expressing his wish of getting Captain Wentworth to bath, Captain Wentworth was already on his way thither. Before Mrs. Croft had written, he was arrived, and the very next time Anne walked out, she saw him. Mr. Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs. Clay. They were in Millson Street. It began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter desirable for women, and quite enough to make it very desirable for Miss Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady Dalrymple's carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance. She, Anne, and Mrs. Clay, therefore turned into mollans, while Mr. Elliot stepped to Lady Dalrymple to request her assistance. He soon joined them again, successful, of course. Lady Dalrymple would be most happy to take them home, and would call for them in a few minutes. Her ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four with any comfort. Miss Cartred was with her mother. Consequently, it was not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three Camden Place ladies. There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot. Whoever suffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little time to settle the point of civility between the other two. The rain was a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with Mr. Elliot. But the rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs. Clay. She would hardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick, much thicker than Miss Anne's, and, in short, her civility rendered her quite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr. Elliot as Anne could be, and it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so determined that the others were obliged to settle it for them, Miss Elliot maintaining that Mrs. Clay had a little cold already, and Mr. Elliot deciding on appeal that his cousin Anne's boots were rather the thickest. It was fixed accordingly that Mrs. Clay should be of the party in the carriage, and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat near the window, described most decidedly and distinctly Captain Wentworth walking down the street. Her start was perceptible only to herself, but she instantly felt that she was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and absurd. For a few minutes she saw nothing before her. It was all confusion. She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she found the others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr. Elliot, always obliging, just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs. Clay's. She now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door. She wanted to see if it rained. Why was she to suspect herself of another motive? Captain Wentworth must be out of sight. She left her seat. She would go. One half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other half, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was. She would see if it rained. She was sent back, however, in a moment by the entrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and ladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a little below Milsom Street. He was more obviously struck and confused by the sight of her than she had ever observed before. He looked quite red. For the first time since their renewed acquaintance, she felt that she was betraying the least sensibility of the two. She had the advantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments. All the overpowering, blinding, bewildering first effects of strong surprise were over with her. Still, however, she had enough to feel. It was agitation, pain, pleasure, or something between delight and misery. He spoke to her and then turned away. The character of his manner was embarrassment. She could not have called it either cold or friendly or anything so certainly as embarrassed. After a short interval, however, he came towards her. He spoke again. Mutual inquiries on common subjects passed. Neither of them probably much the wiser for what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible of his being less at ease than formerly. They had, by tint of being so very much together, got to speak to each other with a considerable portion of apparent indifference and calmness, but he could not do it now. Time had changed him, or Louisa had changed him. There was consciousness of some sort or other. He looked very well, not as if he had been suffering in helpful spirits, and he talked of upper-cross, of the musgroves, may even of Louisa, and had even a momentary look of his own arch-significance as he named her. But yet it was Captain Wentworth not comfortable, not easy, not able to feign what he was. It did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that Elizabeth would not know him. She saw that he saw Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw him, that there was complete internal recognition on each side. She was convinced that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance, expecting it, when she had the pain of seeing her sister turn away with unalterable coldness. Lady Dorimple's carriage, for which Miss Elliot was growing very impatient, now drew up. The servant came in to announce it. It was beginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a bustle, and a talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop understand that Lady Dorimple was calling to convey Miss Elliot. At last Miss Elliot and her friend, unattended but by the servant, for there was no cousin turned, were walking off, and Captain Wentworth, watching them, turned again to Anne, and by manner, rather than words, was offering his services to her. I am much obliged to you, was her answer, but I am not going with them. The carriage would not accommodate so many. I walk. I prefer walking. But it rains. Oh, very little. Nothing that I regard. After a moment's pause he said, Though I came only yesterday, I have equipped myself properly for bath already, you see, pointing to a new umbrella. I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to walk. Though I think it would be more prudent to let me get you a chair. She was very much obliged to him, but declined it all, repeating her conviction, that the rain would come to nothing at present. I am only waiting for Mr. Elliot. He will be here in a moment, I am sure. She had hardly spoken the words when Mr. Elliot walked in. Captain Wentworth recollected him perfectly. There was no difference between him and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as she passed, except in the air and look and manner of the privileged relation and friend. He came in with eagerness, appearing to see and think only of her. Apologised for his day, was grieved to have kept her waiting, and anxious to get her away without further loss of time, and before the rain increased. And in another moment they walked off together, her arm under his. A gentle and embarrassed glance and a good morning to you, being all that she had time for as she passed away. As soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain Wentworth's party began talking of them. Mr. Elliot does not dislike his cousin I fancy. Oh, no, that is clear enough. One can guess what will happen there. He is always with them. Half lives in the family, I believe. What a very good-looking man! Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who died with him once at the Wallises, says he is the most agreeable man she was ever in company with. She is pretty, I think. Anne Elliot, very pretty, when one comes to look at her. It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire her more than her sister. Oh, so do I. And so do I, no comparison. But the men are all wild after Miss Elliot. Anne is too delicate for them. Anne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin if he would have walked by her side all the way to Camden Place without saying a word. She had never found it so difficult to listen to him, though nothing could exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects were principally such as were want to be always interesting, praise, warm, just and discriminating of Lady Russell, and insinuations highly rational against Mrs. Clay. But just now she could think only of Captain Wentworth. She could not understand his present feelings, whether he were really suffering much from disappointment or not. Until that point was settled, she could not be quite herself. She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time, but alas, alas, she must confess to herself that she was not wise yet. Another circumstance very essential for her to know was how long he meant to be in Bath. He had not mentioned it, or she could not recollect it. He might be only passing through. But it was more probable that he should be come to stay. In that case, so liable as everybody was to meet everybody in Bath, Lady Russell would in all likelihood see him somewhere. Would she recollect him? How would it all be? She had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that Louisa Musgrove was to marry Captain Benwick. It had cost her something to encounter Lady Russell's surprise, and now, if she were by any chance to be thrown into company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of the matter might add another shade of prejudice against him. The following morning Anne was out with her friend, and for the first hour in an incessant and fearful sort of watch for him in vain. But at last in returning down Potney Street, she distinguished him on the right hand pavement at such a distance as to have him in view the greater part of the street. There were many other men about him, many groups walking the same way, but there was no mistaking him. She looked instinctively at Lady Russell, but not from any mad idea of her recognizing him so soon as she did herself. No. It was not to be supposed that Lady Russell would perceive him till they were nearly opposite. She looked at her, however, from time to time, anxiously. And when the moment approached which must point him out, though not daring to look again, for her own countenance she knew was unfit to be seen, she was yet perfectly conscious of Lady Russell's eyes being turned exactly in the direction for him, of her being, in short, intently observing him. She could thoroughly comprehend the sort of fascination he must possess over Lady Russell's mind. The difficulty it must be for her to withdraw her eyes. The astonishment she must be feeling that eight or nine years should have passed over him, and in foreign climes and in active service, too, without robbing him of one personal grace. At last Lady Russell drew back her head. Now, how would she speak of him? You will wonder, said she, what has been fixing my eyes so long, but I was looking after some window-curtains which Lady Alisha and Mrs. Franklin were telling me of last night. They described the drawing-room window-curtains of one of the houses on this side of the way, and this part of the street, as being the handsomest and best hung of any and bath, but could not recollect the exact number, and I have been trying to find out which it could be, but I confess I can see no curtains here about that answer their description. Anne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her friend or herself. The part that provoked her most was that in all this waste of foresight and caution she should have lost the right moment for seeing whether he saw them. A day or two passed without producing anything. The theatre or the rooms where he was most likely to be were not fashionable enough for the Eliot's whose evening amusements were solely in the elegant stupidity of private parties in which they were getting more and more engaged. And Anne, worried of such a state of stagnation, sick of knowing nothing, and fancying herself stronger because her strength was not tried, was quite impatient for the concert evening. It was a concert for the benefit of a person patronized by Lady Darimpo. Of course they must attend. It was really expected to be a good one, and Captain Wentworth was very fond of music. If only she could have a few minutes' conversation with him again, she fancied she should be satisfied, and as to the power of addressing him, she felt all over courage if the opportunity occurred. Elizabeth had turned from him. Lady Russell overlooked him. Her nerves were strengthened by these circumstances. She felt that she owed him attention. She had once partly promised Mrs. Smith to spend the evening with her, but in a short harried call she excused herself and put it off with the more decided promise of a longer visit on the morrow. Mrs. Smith gave a most good-humoured acquiescence. By all means, said she, only tell me all about it when you do come. Who is your party? Anne named them all. Mrs. Smith made no reply, but when she was leaving her said, and with an expression half serious, half art, well I heartily wish your concert may answer, and do not fail me to morrow if you can come, for I begin to have a foreboding that I may not have many more visits from you." Anne was startled and confused, but after standing in a moment's suspense was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away. CHAPTER XXII. So Walter, his two daughters and Mrs. Clay, were the earliest of all their party at the rooms in the evening, and as Lady Dalrymple must be waited for, they took their station by one of the fires in the Octagon Room. But hardly were they so settled when the door opened again, and Captain Wentworth walked in alone. Anne was the nearest to him, and making yet a little advance, she instantly spoke. He was preparing only to bow and pass on, but her gentle, how do you do, brought him out of the straight line to stand near her, and make inquiries in return, in spite of the formidable father and sister in the background. Their 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 Lyme. I am afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the more from its not of a powering 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 was 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 Benek 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 Harvel was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was indeed attachment. A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a love. He ought not. He does not. Either from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered, or from other consciousness, he went no further. 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 a total change, she only deviated so far as to say, You were a good violet-lime, I think. About a fortnight. I could not leave it till Louisa's doing well was 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-lime is very fine. I walked and rode a great deal. And the more I saw, the more I found to admire. I should very much like to see-lime again, said Anne. Indeed. I should not have supposed that you could have found anything in Nime 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 lime must have been strong disgust. The last hours were certainly very painful, replied Anne. But when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at lime. We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment, so much novelty and beauty. I have travelled so little that every fresh place would be interesting to me, but there is real beauty at lime. 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 Rimpol, Lady de Rimpol was the rejoicing sound, and with all the eagerness compatible with anxious elegance, so Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet her. Lady de Rimpol and Miss Cartridge, escorted by Mr. Elliot 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 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 were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well to be a sunba. 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 Cartwright, and looking on the broad back of the dowage of I Count Tester Rimple 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 night. 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 sheriff the tenderness of the past. She could not contemplate the change as implying less. He must love her. These were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation. And she passed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even trying to discern him. When their places were determined on, and they were all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen to be in the same part of the room, but he was not. Her eye could not reach him, and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a time to be happy in a humbler way. The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches. Anne was among those on the foremost, and Mr. Eliot had maneuvered so well with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallace as to have a seat by her. Miss Eliot, 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 wearism, 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. Eliot. They had a concert built 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, as 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 Eliot. And I do regard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be aware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for modesty to be natural in any other woman. For shame, for shame, this is too much flattery. I forget what we are to have next, turning to the bill. Perhaps, said Mr. Eliot, speaking low, I have had a longer acquaintance with your character than you are aware of. Indeed? How so? You can have been acquainted with it only since I came to Bath, excepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my own family. I knew you by report long before you came to Bath. I had heard you described by those who knew you intimately. I have been acquainted with you by character many years. Your person, your disposition, accomplishments, manner—they were all present to me. Mr. Eliot 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 wandered and questioned him eagerly, but in vain. He delighted him 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 Eliot, 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 a Mr. Eliot's company, but she had not courage to ask the question. The name of Anne Eliot, said he, has long had an interesting sound to me. Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy, and if I dared, I would breathe my wishes that the name might never change. Such she believed were his words, but scarcely had she received their sound, then her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind her, which rendered everything else trivial. Her father and Lady de Rimpel were speaking. A well-looking man, said Sir Walter, a very well-looking man. A very fine young man, indeed, said Lady de Rimpel. More air than one often sees in Bath. Irish, I dare say. No, I just know his name. A bound acquaintance. Wentworth. Captain Wentworth of the Navy. His sister married my tenant in Somerseture. The Croft who rents Kellynch. Before Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne's eyes had caught the right direction, and distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a cluster of men at a little distance. As her eyes fell on him, his seemed to be withdrawn from her. It had that appearance. It seemed as if she had been one moment too late, and as long as she dared observe, he did not look again. But the performance was recommencing, and he was forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra, and look straightforward. When she could give another glance, he had moved away. She could not have come nearer to her if he would. She was so surrounded and shut in. But she would rather have caught his eye. Mr. Elliot's speech too distressed her. She had no longer any inclination to talk to him. She wished him not so near her. The first act was over. Now she hoped for some beneficial change, and after a period of nothing saying amongst the party, some of them did decide on going in quest of tea. Anne was one of the few who did not choose to move. She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell. But she had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr. Elliot. And she did not mean, whatever she might feel on Lady Russell's account, to shrink from conversation with Captain Wentworth if he gave her the opportunity. She was persuaded by Lady Russell's countenance that she had seen him. He did not come, however. Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a distance, but he never came. The anxious interval wore away unproductively. The others turned, the room filled again, benches were reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of penance was to be sent out. Another hour of music was to give delight or the gaps, as real or affected taste for it prevailed. To Anne it chiefly wore the prospect of an hour of agitation. She could not quit that room in peace without seeing Captain Wentworth once more, without the interchange of one friendly look. In resettling 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 Cartridge, 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 neighbours, she found herself at the very end of the bench before the concert closed. Such was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when Captain Wentworth was again in sight. She saw him not far off, he saw her too, yet he looked grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow degrees came at last near enough to speak to her. She felt that something must be the matter. The change was indubitable. The difference between his present air and what it had been in the octagon room was strikingly clear. 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. Anne replied in spoken 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 around. It came from Mr. Elliot. He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to explain Italian again. Miss Cartwright was very anxious to have a general idea of what was next to be sung. Anne could not refuse, but never had she sacrificed her 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 which he seemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own sentiment, 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. Pretty amusings of high rule to 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 have her 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 laundry and a waiter, rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the company. Everybody at any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well known by name to Mrs. Smith. The little Durans were there, I conclude, she said, with their mouths open to catch the music, like unflagged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert. Yes, I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr. Elliot say they were in the room. The Ibertsons were they there, and the two new beauties with the tall Irish officer who is talked of for one of them. I do not know. I do not think they were. Oh, Lady Mary MacLean! I need not ask after her. She never misses I know, and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle, for as you went with Lady de Rimpel 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 de Rimpel 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 always had 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 over spread Anne's cheeks, she could say nothing. And such being the case, continued Mrs. Smith, after a short pause, I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time. Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in 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, Praying, said Mrs. Smith, is Mr. Elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath? Mr. Elliot, replied 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 soon added more composedly. Are you acquainted with Mr. Elliot? I have been a good deal acquainted with him, replied Mrs. Smith gravely, but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met. I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you. To confess the truth, said Mrs. Smith, assuming her usual air of cheerfulness, that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have. I want you to talk about me to Mr. Elliot. I want your interest with him. He can be of essential service to me, and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done. I should be extremely happy. I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to be of even the slightest use to you, replied Anne. But I suspect that you are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr. Elliot, a greater right to influence him, than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only as Mr. Elliot's relation. If, in that light, there is anything which you suppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not hesitate to employ me. Mrs. Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then smiling, said, I have been a little premature, I perceive. I beg your pardon. I ought to have waited for official information. But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak. Next week? To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr. Elliot's good fortune. No, replied Anne, nor next week, nor next, nor next. I assure you that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week. I am not going to marry Mr. Elliot. I should like to know why you imagine I am. Mrs. Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head and exclaimed, Now how I do wish I understood you. How I do wish I knew what you were at. I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel when the right moment occurs. Till it does come you know we women never mean to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more 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 him 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 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 piece. 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, and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs. Smith, convince you that he has 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 as somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond, and Anne, eager to escape father-notes, was impatient to know why Mrs. Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr. Elliot, where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. Do tell me how it first came into your head? It first came into my head, replied Mrs. Smith, upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you. And you may depend upon it, that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago. And has it indeed been spoken of? Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday? No. Was 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 for 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 you were 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 toll 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 a fishers, 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 expression startled 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. Fact shall speak. He was the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before our marriage. I found them most intimate friends, and I too became excessively pleased with Mr. Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously. But Mr. Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable than most others, and we were almost always together. We were principally in town, living in very good style. He was then the inferior in circumstances, he was then the poor one. He had chambers in the temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman. He had always a home with us whenever he chose it. He was always welcome. He was like a brother. My poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his last fathering with him. And I know that his purse was open to him. I know that he often assisted him. This must have been about that very period of Mr. Elliot's life, said Anne, which has always excited my particular curiosity. It must have been about the same time that he became known to my father and sister. I never knew him myself. I only heard of him. But there was a something in his conduct then with regard to my father and sister, and afterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could quite reconcile with present times. It seemed to announce a different sort of man. I know it all. I know it all, cried Mrs. Smith. He had been introduced to Sir Walter and your sister before I was acquainted with him. But I heard him speak of them for ever. I know he was invited and encouraged, and I know he did not choose to go. I can satisfy you, perhaps, on points which you would little expect. And as to his marriage, I knew all about it at the time. I was privy to all the fours and againsts. I was the friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans, and though I did not know his wife previously, her inferior situation in society indeed rendered that impossible, yet I knew her all her life afterwards, or at least till within the last two years of her life, and can answer any question you may wish to put. "'Nay,' said Anne. I have no particular 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 mat between the heir and the young lady, and it was impossible that such a match could have answered his ideas of wealth and independence.' "'That was his motive for drawing back, I can assure you. He told me the whole story. He had no concealments with me. It was curious that having just left you behind me in Bath, my first and principal acquaintance on marrying, should be your cousin, and that through him, I should be continually hearing of your father and sister. He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought very affectionately of the other.' "'Perhaps,' cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea, you sometimes spoke of me to Mr. Elliot?' "'To be sure I did, very often. I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot, and vouch for your being a very different creature from—' She checked herself just in time. "'This accounts for something which Mr. Elliot said last night,' cried Anne. "'This explains it. I found he had been used to hear of me. I could not comprehend how. What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned. How sure to be mistaken. But I beg your pardon. I have interrupted you.' "'Mr. Elliot married then completely for money?' The circumstances probably which first opened your eyes to his character. "'Mr. Smith hesitated a little here. Oh, those things are too common. When one lives in the world, a man or woman's marrying for money is too common to strike one as it ought. I was very young and associated only with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any strict rules of conduct. We lived for enjoyment. I think differently now. Time and sickness and sorrow have given me other notions. But at that period I must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr. Elliot was doing—to do the best for himself, past as a duty."