\
^^^^
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NORTHANGEK ABBEY
and
PERSUASION
Large-paper edition, limited to 1,000 sets, of
which 950 are for sale.
The Novels
of
JANE AUSTEN
The Text based on Collation of the
Early Editions
by
R. W. CHAPMAN
With Notes Indexes and Illustrations
From Contemporary Sources
IN FIVE VOLUMES I S S ' S U 6?
VOLUME V
OXFORD
AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
1923
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
London Edinburgh Glasgow Copenhagen
New York Toronto Melbourne Cape Town
Bombay Calcutta Madras Shanghai
HUMPHREY MILFORD
Publisher to the University
9r
^030
Printed in England
CONTENTS
( vi)
CONTENTS
VOLUME I
Preface
Introductory Note
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 1811
Notes .....
Appendixes : Miss Austen's English
Reading and Writing
The Early Editions .
Index of Characters, &c.
PAGE
i
xi
1
381
888
422
425
427
VOLUME II
Introductory Note ...... xi
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, 1813 . . . 1
Notes 889
Appendixes : Chronology of Pride and Prejudice 400
Pride and Prejudice and Cecilia . 408
Modes of Address .... 409
VOLUME III
«xo
Introductory Note
. xi
MANSFIELD PARK, 1814 . . . ,
1
Lovers^ Vows, 1798
474
Notes
539
Appendixes : Chronology of Mansfield Park .
553
Improvements
556
Carriages and Travel
560
Index of Characters, &c
565
CONTENTS vii
VOLUME IV
PAGE
xi
1
487
497
499
516
519
Introductory Note
EMMA, 1816 ....
Notes .....
Appendixes : Chronology of Emma
The Manners of the Age
The Punctuation of the Novels
Index of Characters, &c. . . • .
VOLUME V
Introductory Note ...... xi
Biographical Notice of the Author, by Henry Austen 8
NORTHANGER ABBEY, 1818 .... 11
PERSUASION, 1818 1
The Cancelled Chapter of Persuasion . . . 253
Notes 265
Appendixes : Chronology of Northanger Abbey and
Perstiasion . . . 275, 280
The Topography of Bath . . 283
The Mysteries of Udolpho • . 284
Indexes of Characters, &c 291
General Indexes :
1. Of Literary Allusions . . » , 295
2. Of Real Persons 307
3. Of Real Places 308
( viii )
ILLUSTRATIONS
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
From Heideloff' s Gallery of Fashion, November 1797.
Frontispiece
Title-page of the First Edition. Page xiii
Oxford Street from Stratford Place. From a print in
the Grace Collection (British Museum). Face page 1
Portman Square. From an aquatint after Gingal.
(British Museum). Face page 137
Full Dress of a Gentleman. From Ackermann's Repository
of Arts, April 1810. Face page 255
St. James's Street. From a print by Malton, 1810
(British Museum). Face page 380
Elegant Chariot. From Felton's Treatise on Carriages,
1801. Face page 386
An Entire New Plan of the Cities of London and West-
minster, 1819 (British Museum). At end
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Frontispiece to Thomas Wilson's Analysis of Country
Dancing, 1811. Frontispiece
Morning Dress. Invented by Mrs. Bell. From La Belle
AssembUe, July 1815. Face page 1
A Vicarage House. From Ackermann's Repository of
Arts, October 1816. Face page 131
Matlock. From Gilpin's Cumberland and Westmoreland
(third edition, 1792). Face page 243
Dove-dale. From the same. Face page 245
The Encampment at Brighton. From a mezzotint by
J. Murphy after Wheatley (British Museum).
Face page 390
Parisian Head Dresses. From Ackermann's Repository of
Arts, January 1817. Face page 398
A Travelling Coach. From Felton's Carriages, 1801.
Face page 412
MANSFIELD PARK ix
South Front of Harleston Park, Northamptonshire,
jB. Andrews, Esqr. From Humphrey Repton's
Fragments on the Theory and Practice of Landscape
Gardening, 1816. Frontispiece
Title-page of the First Edition. Page xiii
Evening Dress. From Ackermann's Repository of Arts,
June 1817. Face page 1
Midshipman ; Lieutenant ; Captain ; Admiral. From
prints by Merks after Rowlandson (in the Collection
of Mr. Dyson Perrins). Face pages 173, 175
View from the Saluting Platform, Portsmouth. From
a print by E. Finden after E. W. Cooke. Face page 309
Frontispiece to Lovers^ Vows. From vol. xxiii of The
British Theatre . . . with Biographical and Critical
Remarks by Mrs. Inchbald, 1808. Face page 475
Mrs. H. Johnston, the Amelia of Lovers^ Vows. From
a print by Ridley after Smith, 1805. Face page 481
Mrs. Inchbald as Lady Jane Gray. From a print by
Audinet after De Wilde, 1791. Face page 538
EMMA
Ball Dress. From Ackermann's Repository of Arts,
October 1816. Frontispiece
Furniture for an Artist's, or Amateur's Apartment. From
Ackermann's Repository of Arts, July 1815.
Face page 1
* Maternal Recreation '. From an anonymous print, 1816
(lent by Messrs. Broadwood & Sons).
Face pages 153, 155
Box Hill. From a drawing by H. Edridge (A.R.A., 1769-
1821) in the collection of Mr. Thomas Girtin.
Face page 314
A Mona Marble Chimney Piece. From Ackermann's
Repository of Arts, October 1816. Face page 484
Title-page of The Vase of Fancy, 1806. Face page 487
Title-page and pages 12, 192, of Thomas Wilson's Analysis
of Country Dancing, 1811. Pages 50S-5
Title-page, frontispiece, and page 143 of Thomas Wilson's
Companion to the Ball Room, 1816. Pages 511, 512
Library Window Curtain. From Ackermann's Repository
of Arts f January 1815. Face page 522
X ILLUSTRATIONS
NORTHANGER ABBEY
The Pump Room, &c. From Bath, Illustraied by a Series
of Views, from the Drawings of John Claude Nattes,
1806. Frontispiece
Comforts of Bath. From prints after Rowlandson, 1798,
in the Collection of Mr. Dyson Perrins.
Face pages 11, 13
Curricle Gig. From Felton's Carriages, 1801.
Face page 127
The Lower Rooms ; the Upper Rooms. From prints by
Storer in Egan's Walks through Bath, 1819.
Face page 252
Frontispiece to Mrs. Parsons' The Mysterious Warning,
1796. Page 286
Title-page of Mrs. Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho,
1794. Page 287
PERSUASION
Autumnal Walking Dress, Invented by Mrs. Bell. From
La Belle AssemhUe, 1815.
Frontispiece (to Volume Hi)
Milsom Street, &c. From Nattes's Bath, 1806.
Face page 8
Lyme Regis. From a pair of prints in the Cruikshank
Collection (British Museum). Face page 119
A Landaulet built by Mr. Birch. From Ackermann's
Repository of Arts, March 1818. Face page 252
Interior of the Concert Room. From Nattes's Both, 1806.
Face page 264
Pulteney Street, terminating in Laura Place, as seen
through a gateway going out of Sydney Gardens.
From Nattes's Bath, 1806. Face page 282
A New and Correct Plan of the City of Bath, 1801.
At end
h
(xi)
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
to
NORTHANGER ABBEY
and
PERSUASION
Northanger Abbey and Persuasion were published, after
their author's death, in 1818. The previous history of
the former is obscure ; but we know from Cassandra
Austen's memorandum ^ that it was originally written
in 1797 and 1798 ; and the detailed discussion in ch. xiii
of the Life seems to prove the identity of Northanger
Abbey with the ' MS. novel in two vols., entitled Susan '
which was sold in the spring of 1803 to Messrs. Crosby
& Co. of Stationers' Hall Court for £10, with a view to
its early publication.^ It is not possible to suppose that
Susan is the same as Lady Susan ; and we know from
the Advertisement by the Authoress that Northanger Abbey
was in fact 'finished in the year 1803, and intended for
immediate publication. It was disposed of to a book-
seller, it was even advertised,^ and why the business
proceeded no farther, the author has never been able
» Life, 96. » Life, 230.
' Flowers of Literature for 1801-2 (published 1803) contains a list
of * New and Useful Books published by Crosby & Co.', in which
is announced as in the press * Susan ; A Novel in 2 volumes *,
I owe this reference to the kindness of Mr. A. Crosby Lockwood ;
the British Museum copy lacks the list of advertisements. Lists
included in later issues of Flowers of Literature do not mention
Susan,
xii INTRODUCTORY NOTE
to learn '. It is true that the Memoir states that North"
anger Abbey ' was sold, in 1803, to a publisher in Bath,
for ten pounds ' ^ and the developed tradition even tells
us the publisher's name and place of business ; but except
for this discrepancy the circumstances of the sale of
Northanger Abbey as reported in the Advertisement and
the Memoir accord precisely with the circumstances of
the sale of Susan set forth in the letters to and from
Crosby, preserved by Cassandra Austen. We can only
conclude that the author of the Memoir made a not
unnatural slip when he described the sale as to * a pub-
lisher in Bath '.
Mr. Richard Crosby was willing in 1809 to return the
MS. ' for the same as we paid for it ' ; and after the
publication of Emma ' one of her brothers . . . found the
purchaser very willing to receive back his money, and to
resign all claim to the copyright '.^ He was still without
suspicion, ' though his name was Richard ', that the MS.
in his hands was by the author of Pride and Prejudice.
A later name was Catherine.^ In March 1817 it was
still doubtful whether * Miss Catherine . . . will ever come
out '.* Miss Austen ' was willing to supply another copy '
of Susan, so the book may have been revised between
the date of its sale (1803) and the date of the recovery
of the copyright (1816) ; perhaps about 1809, when the
question of publication was revived.^ The Advertisement
apologizes for ' those parts of the work which thirteen
1 Ed. 2, 129. 2 Memoir Ed. 2, 130.
3 The change of the heroine's name may have been connected
with the publication by John Booth, about June 1809, of an anony-
mous Susan (2 vols., 12mo., 8s. ; advertised in Bont's Monthly
Literary Advertiser, 10 June 1809). I owe the knowledge of this
Susan to Mr. Crosby liOckwood.
* Letters 13 March 1817.
* Life, 230. The fact that Miss Austen had, or could produce,
a second copy may not be unimportant in estimating the probable
nature of the revision of Pride and Prejudice,
INTRODUCTORY NOTE xiii
years have made comparatively obsolete ', but we are
not bound to believe that nothing was altered after 1803.
The only internal indications ^ I have noticed are the
mention of Belinda (published 1801) and of Mr. James
King, who ceased to be M.C. of the Lower Rooms in 1805 ;
and the absence of any mention of Union-street, which
was opened in 1807 and appears in Persuasion, (Catherine
and Isabella go from the Pump Room to Milsom-street
by the narrow lane called Union-passage.) See however
the Appendix on Dates.^
Persuasion was begun in the summer or autumn of
1815, and the first draft was completed on 18 July 1816.'
The cancelled chapter was first printed in the second
edition (1871) of the Memoir, from which it is here
reprinted.
The Morning Chronicle for 19 and 20 December 1817
announces the publication of ' Northanger Abbey, a
Romance ; and Persuasion, a Novel. By the Author of
Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, &c.' The distinc-
tion between the Romance and the Novel does not appear
on the title-page. The price of the four volumes was 245.
Although the proofs were not read by the author, the
text is good. There are well-known corruptions at p. 212
of Northanger Abbey and at pp. 3 and 227 of Persuasion,
I have introduced new corrections at pp. 86 and 240 of
Persuasion, and suggested a doubt at p. 60 of Northanger
Abbey.
» pp. 27, 38, 44.
* Readers of Nightmare Abbey (1818, p. 140) may be tempted to
connect the riots promoted * by a drunken cobbler and doctor ',
and their * intention to take the Tower, and set fire to the Bank *,
with those described by Henry Tilney (p. 113). But the rioters of
December 1816 met in Spa Fields ; Henry's reference to St. George's
Fields makes it certain that he is thinking of the Gordon Riots of
1780.
» Memoir Ed. 2, 157.
In modern editions the chapters of Vol. II of
Northanger Abbey are numbered 16-31, and those
of Vol. II of Persuasim, 13-24.
NOKTH ANGER ABBEY:
AND
PERSUASION,
BY THE AUTHOR OF " PRIDE AND PREJUDICE,'
" MANSFIELD-PARK," &C.
WITH A BIOGKAPHICAL NOTICE OF THE
AUTHOR.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. I
LONDON :
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.
1818.
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE
OF
THE AUTHOR.
The following pages are the production of a pen which
has already contributed in no small degree to the enter-
tainment of the public. And when the public, which has
not been insensible to the merits of " Sense and Sensi-
bility," " Pride and Prejudice," " Mansfield Park," and
*' Emma," shall be informed that the hand which guided
that pen is now mouldering in the grave, perhaps a brief
account of Jane Austen will be read with a kindlier
sentiment than simple curiosity.
Short and easy will be the task of the mere biographer.
A life of usefulness, literature, and religion, was not by
any means a life of event. To those who lament their
irreparable loss, it is consolatory to think that, as she
never deserved disapprobation, so, in the circle of her
family and friends, she never met reproof; that her
wishes were not only reasonable, but gratified ; and that
to the little disappointments incidental to human life was
never added, even for a moment, an abatement of good-
will from any who knew her.
Jane Austen was born on the 16th of December, 1775,
at Steventon, in the county of Hants. Her father was
Rector of that parish upwards of forty years. There he
resided, in the conscientious and unassisted discharge of
his ministerial duties, until he was turned of seventy
years. Then he retired with his wife, our authoress, and
her sister, to Bath, for the remainder of his hfe, a period
of about four years. Being not only a profound scholar,
but possessing a most exquisite taste in every species of
literature, it is not wonderful that his daughter Jane
should, at a very early age, have become sensible to the
charms of style, and enthusiastic in the cultivation of her
own language. On the death of her father she removed,
with
B 2
{ * )
with Her mother and sister, for a short time, to
Southampton, and finally, in 1809, to the pleasant
village of Chawton, in the same county. From this place
she sent into the world those novels, which by many have
been placed on the same shelf as the works of a D'Arblay
and an Edgeworth. Some of these novels had been the
gradual performances of her previous life. For though in
composition she was equally rapid and correct, yet an
invincible distrust of her own judgement induced her to
withhold her works from the public, till time and many
perusals had satisfied her that the charm of recent com-
position was dissolved. The natural constitution, the
regular habits, the quiet and happy occupations of our
authoress, seemed to promise a long succession of amuse-
ment to the public, and a gradual increase of reputation
to herself. But the symptoms of a decay, deep and in-
curable, began to shew themselves in the commencement
of 1816. Her decline was at first deceitfully slow ; and
until the spring of this present year, those who knew their
happiness to be involved in her existence could not endure
to despair. But in the month of May, 1817, it was found
advisable that she should be removed to Winchester for
the benefit of constant medical aid, which none even then
dared to hope would be permanently beneficial. She sup-
ported, during two months, all the varying pain, irksome-
ness, and tedium, attendant on decaying nature, with
more than resignation, with a truly elastic cheerfulness.
She retained her faculties, her memory, her fancy, her
temper, and her affections, warm, clear, and unimpaired,
to the last. Neither her love of God, nor of her fellow
creatures flagged for a moment. She made a point of
receiving the sacrament before excessive bodily weakness
might have rendered her perception unequal to her wishes.
She wrote whilst she could hold a pen, and with a pencil
when a pen was become too laborious. The day preceding
her death she composed some stanzas replete with fancy
and vigour. Her last voluntary speech conveyed thanks
to her medical attendant ; and to the final question asked
of
( 5 )
of her, purporting to know her wants, she replied, " I
want nothing but death."
She expired shortly after, on Friday the 18th of July,
1817, in the arms of her sister, who, as well as the relator
of these events, feels too surely that they shall never look
upon her like again.
Jane Austen was buried on the 24th of July, 1817, in
the cathedral church of Winchester, which, in the whole
catalogue of its mighty dead, does not contain the ashes
of a brighter genius or a sincerer Christian.
Of personal attractions she possessed a considerable
share. Her stature was that of true elegance. It could
not have been increased without exceeding the middle
height. Her carriage and deportment were quiet, yet
graceful. Her features were separately good. Their
assemblage produced an unrivalled expression of that
cheerfulness, sensibility, and benevolence, which were her
real characteristics. Her complexion was of the finest
texture. It might with truth be said, that her eloquent
blood spoke through her modest cheek. Her voice was
extremely sweet. She delivered herself with fluency and
precision. Indeed she was formed for elegant and rational
society, excelling in conversation as much as in com-
position. In the present age it is hazardous to mention
accomplishments. Our authoress would, probably, have
been inferior to few in such acquirements, had she not
been so superior to most in higher things. She had not
only an excellent taste for drawing, but, in her earlier
days, evinced great power of hand in the management of
the pencil. Her own musical attainments she held very
cheap. Twenty years ago they would have been thought
more of, and twenty years hence many a parent will
expect their daughters to be applauded for meaner per-
formances. She was fond of dancing, and excelled in it.
It remains now to add a few observations on that which
her friends deemed more important, on those endowments
which sweetened every hour of their lives.
If there be an opinion current in the world, that perfect
placidity
( 6 )
placidity of temper is not reconcileable to the most li^s^ely
imagination, and the keenest reHsh for wit, such an
opinion will be rejected for ever by those who have had
the happiness of knowing the authoress of the following
works. Though the frailties, foibles, and follies of others
could not escape her immediate detection, yet even on
their vices did she never trust herself to comment with
unkindness. The affectation of candour is not uncommon ;
but she had no affectation. Faultless herself, as nearly
as human nature can be, she always sought, in the faults
of others, something to excuse, to forgive or forget.
Where extenuation was impossible, she had a sure refuge
in silence. She never uttered either a hasty, a silly, or
a severe expression. In short, her temper was as polished
as her wit. Nor were her manners inferior to her temper.
They were of the happiest kind. No one could be often
in her company without feeling a strong desire of obtain-
ing her friendship, and cherishing a hope of having
obtained it. She was tranquil without reserve or stiff-
ness ; and communicative without intrusion or self-
sufficiency. She became an authoress entirely from taste
and inclination. Neither the hope of fame nor profit
mixed with her early motives. Most of her works, as
before observed, were composed many years previous to
their publication. It was with extreme difficulty that her
friends, whose partiality she suspected whilst she honoured
their judgement, could prevail on her to publish her first
work. Nay, so persuaded was she that its sale would not
repay the expense of publication, that she actually made
a reserve from her very moderate income to meet the
expected loss. She could scarcely believe what she termed
her great good fortune when " Sense and Sensibility "
produced a clear profit of about £150. Few so gifted were
so, truly unpretending. She regarded the above sum as
a prodigious recompense for that which had cost her
nothing. Her readers, perhaps, will wonder that such
a work produced so little at a time when some authors
have received more guineas than they have written lines.
The
( ~ )
The works of our authoress, however, may live as long as
those which have burst on the world with more eclat.
But the public has not been unjust ; and our authoress
was far from thinking it so. Most gratifying to her was
the applause which from time to time reached her ears
from those who were competent to discriminate. Still, in
spite of such applause, so much did she shrink from
notoriety, that no accumulation of fame would have
induced her, had she lived, to affix her name to any pro-
ductions of her pen. In the bosom of her own family she
talked of them freely, thankful for praise, open to remark,
and submissive to criticism. But in public she turned
away from any allusion to the character of an authoress.
She read aloud with very great taste and effect. Her own
works, probably, were never heard to so much advantage
as from her own mouth ; for she partook largely in all
the best gifts of the comic muse. She Mas a warm and
judicious admirer of landscape, both in nature and on
canvass. At a very early age she was enamoured of Gilpin
on the Picturesque ; and she seldom changed her opinions
either on books or men.
Her reading was very extensive in history and belles
lettres ; and her memory extremely tenacious. Her
favourite moral writers were Johnson in prose, and
Cowper in verse. It is difficult to say at what age she
was not intimately acquainted with the merits and defects
of the best essays and novels in the English language,
Richardson's power of creating, and preserving the con-
sistency of his characters, as particularly exemplified in
" Sir Charles Grandison," gratified the natural discrimina-
tion of her mind, whilst her taste secured her from the
errors of his prolix style and tedious narrative. She did
not rank any work of Fielding quite so high. Without
the slightest affectation she recoiled from every thing
gross. Neither nature, wit, nor humour, could make her
amends for so very low a scale of morals.
Her power of inventing characters seems to have been
intuitive, and almost unlimited. She drew from nature ;
but,
( 8 )
but, whatever may have been surmised to the contrary,
never from individuals.
The style of her familiar correspondence was in all
respects the same as that of her novels. Every thing
came finished from her pen ; for on all subjects she had
ideas as clear as her expressions were well chosen. It. is
not hazarding too much to say that she never dispatched
a note or letter unworthy of publication.
One trait only remains to be touched on. It makes all
others unimportant. She was thoroughly religious and
devout ; fearful of giving offence to God, and incapable
of feeling it towards any fellow creature. On serious
subjects she was well-instructed, both by reading and
meditation, and her opinions accorded strictly with those
of our Established Church.
London, Dec. 13, 1817
POSTSCRIPT.
Since concluding the above remarks, the writer of
them has been put in possession of some extracts from
the private correspondence of the authoress. They are
few and short ; but are submitted to the public without
apology, as being more truly descriptive of her temper,
taste, feelings, and principles than any thing which the
pen of a biographer can produce.
The first extract is a playful defence of herself from
a mock charge of having pilfered the manuscripts of
a young relation.
" What should I do, my dearest E. with your manly,
vigorous sketches, so full of life and spirit ? How could
I possibly join them on to a little bit of ivor>% two inches
wide, on which I work with a brush so fine as to produce
little effect after much labour ? "
The remaining extracts are from various parts of a
letter written a few weeks before her death.
"My
( 9 )
" My attendant is encouraging, and talks of making
me quite well. I live chiefly on the sofa, but am allowed
to walk from one room to the other. I have been out
once in a sedan-chair, and am to repeat it, and be pro-
moted to a wheel-chair as the weather serves. On this
subject I will only say further that my dearest sister, my
tender, watchful, indefatigable nurse, has not been made
ill by her exertions. As to what I owe to her, and to the
anxious affection of all my beloved family on this occasion,
I can only cry over it, and pray to God to bless them
more and more."
She next touches with just and gentle animadversion
on a subject of domestic disappointment. Of this the
particulars do not concern the public. Yet in justice to
her characteristic sweetness and resignation, the conclud-
ing observation of our authoress thereon must not be
suppressed.
" But I am getting too near complaint. It has been the
appointment of God, however secondary causes may have
operated."
The following and final extract will prove the facility
with which she could correct every impatient thought,
and turn from complaint to cheerfulness. .
*' You will find Captain a very respectable, well-
meaning man, without much manner, his wife and sister
all good humour and obligingness, and I hope (since the
fashion allows it) with rather longer petticoats than last
year."
London, Dec, 20, 1817.
/o
Sip
NORTHANGER ABBEY.
VOL. I.
ADVERTISEMENT,
BY THE AUTHORESS,
TO
NORTHANGER ABBEY.
This little work was finished in the year 1803,
and intended for immediate publication. It was
disposed of to a bookseller, it was even advertised,
and why the business proceeded no farther, the
author has never been able to learn. That any
bookseller should think it worth while to purchase
what he did not think it worth while to publish
seems extraordinary. But with this, neither the
author nor the public have any other concern than
as some observation is necessary upon those parts
of the work which thirteen years have made com-
paratively obsolete. The public are entreated to
bear in mind that thirteen years have passed since
it was finished, many more since it was begun, and
that during that period, places, manners, books, and
opinions have undergone considerable changes.
\\.
NORTHANGER ABBEY.
CHAPTER I.
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her
infancy, would have supposed her born to be an heroine.
Her situation in Ufe, the character of her father and
mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally
against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being
neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though
his name was Richard — and he had never been handsome.
He had a considerable independence, besides two good
livings — and he was not in the least addicted to locking
up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful
plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more
remarkable, with a good constitution. She had three
sons before Catherine was born ; and instead of dying in
bringing the latter into the world, as any body might
expect, she still lived on — lived to have six children more
— to see them growing up around her, and to enjoy
excellent health herself. A family of ten children will be
always called a fine family, where there are heads and
arms and legs enough for the number ; but the Morlands
had little other right to the word, for they were in general
very plain, and Catherine, for many years of her life, as
plain as any. She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow
skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong features ; —
so much for her person ; — and not less unpropitious for
heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boys'
plays, and greatly preferred cricket not merely to dolls,
but to the more heroic enjoyments of infancy, nursing
a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a rose-
bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden ; and if she
gathered
( 14 )
gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of
mischief — at least so it was conjectured from her always
preferring those which she was forbidden to take. — Such
were her propensities — her abilities w^ere quite as extra-
ordinary. She never could learn or understand any thing
before she was taught ; and sometimes not even then,
for she was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid.
Her mother was three months in teaching her only to
repeat the " Beggar's Petition ; " and after all, her next
sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that
Catherine was always stupid, — by no means ; she learnt
the fable of *' The Hare and many Friends," as quickly
as any girl in England. Her mother wished her to learn
music ; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for
she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn
spinnet ; so, at eight years old she began. She learnt
a year, and could not bear it ; — and Mrs. Morland, who
did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in
spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off.
The day which dismissed the music-master was one of
the happiest of Catherine's life. Her taste for drawing
was not superior ; though whenever she could obtain the
outside of a letter from her mother, or seize upon any
other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that
way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all
very much like one another. — Writing and accounts she
was taught by her father ; French by her mother : her
proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked
her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange,
unaccountable character ! — for with all these symptoms of
profligacy at ten years old, she had neither a bad heart
nor a bad temper ; was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever
quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few
interruptions of tyranny ; she was moreover noisy and
wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved
nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green
slope at the back of the house.
Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appear-
ances
( 15 )
ances were mending ; she began to curl her hair and long
for balls ; her complexion improved, her features were
softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more
animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of
dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew
clean as she grew smart ; she had now the pleasure of
sometimes hearing her father and mother remark on her
personal improvement. " Catherine grows quite a good-
looking girl, — she is almost pretty to day," were words
which caught her ears now and then ; and how welcome
were the sounds ! To look almost pretty, is an acquisition
of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the
first fifteen years of her life, than a beauty from her cradle
can ever receive.
Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to
see her children every thing they ought to be ; but her
time was so much occupied in lying-in and teaching the
little ones, that her elder daughters were inevitably left
to shift for themselves ; and it was not very wonderful
that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about
her, should prefer cricket, base ball, riding on horseback,
and running about the country at the age of fourteen, to
books — or at least books of information— for, provided
that nothing like useful knowledge could be gained from
them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she
had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen
to seventeen she was in training for a heroine ; she read
all such works as heroines must read to supply their
memories with those quotations which are so serviceable
and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.
From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
** bear about the mockery of woe."
From Gray, that
" Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
" And waste its fragrance on the desert air."
From Thompson, that
It is a delightful task
To teach the young idea how to shoot.''
And
( 16 )
And from Shakspeare she gained a great store of
information — amongst the rest, that
" Trifles light as air.
That
Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
As proofs of Holy Writ."
" The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
" In corp)oral sufferance feels a pang as great
" As when a giant dies."
And that a young woman in love always looks
"like Patience on a monument
" Smiling at Grief."
So far her improvement was sufficient — and in many
other points she came on exceedingly well ; for though
she could not write sonnets, she brought herself to read
them ; and though there seemed no chance of her throw-
ing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the
pianoforte, of her own composition, she could listen to
other people's performance with very little fatigue. Her
greatest deficiency was in the pencil — she had no notion
of drawing — not enough even to attempt a sketch of her
lover's profile, that she might be detected in the design.
There she fell miserably short of the true heroic height.
At present she did not know her own poverty, for she had
no lover to pourtray. She had reached the age of
seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who
could call forth her sensibility ; without having inspired
one real passion, and without having excited even any
admiration but what was very moderate and very tran-
sient. This was strange indeed ! But strange things may
be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched
out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood ; no —
not even a baronet. There was not one family among
their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy
accidentally found at their door — not one young man
whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward,
and the squire of the parish no children.
But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverse-
ness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her.
Something
( n )
Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her
way.
Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about
Fullerton, the village in Wiltshire where the Morlands
lived, was ordered to Bath for the benefit of a gouty con-
stitution ; — and his lady, a good-humoured woman, fond
of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures
will not befal a young lady in her own village, she must
seek them abroad, invited her to go with them. Mr. and
Mrs. Morland were all compliance, and Catherine all
happiness.
"815 C CHAP-
( 18 )
CHAPTER II.
In addition to what has been already said of Catherine
Morland's personal and mental endowments, when about
to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of
a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the
reader's more certain information, lest the following pages
should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her
character is meant to be ; that her heart was affectionate,
her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or
affectation of any kind — her manners just removed from
the awkwardness and shyness of a girl ; her person
pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty — and her mind
about as ignorant and uninformed as the female mind
at seventeen usually is.
When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal
anxiety of Mrs. Morland will be naturally supposed to be
most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil
to her beloved Catherine from this terrific separation
must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in
tears for the last day or two of their being together ; and
advice of the most important and applicable nature must
of course flow from her wise lips in their parting conference
in her closet. Cautions against the violence of such
noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young ladies
away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment,
relieve the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so ?
But Mrs. Morland knew so little of lords and baronets,
that she entertained no notion of their general mischievous-
ness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her daughter
from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to
the following points. " I beg, Catherine, you will always
wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you
come from the Rooms at night ; and I wish you would
try
( 19 )
try to keep some account of the money you spend ; —
I will give you this little book on purpose."
Sally, or rather Sarah, (for what young lady of common
gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering
her name as far as she can ?) must from situation be at
this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister.
It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on
Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise
of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance,
nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath
might produce. Every thing indeed relative to this
important journey was done, on the part of the Morlands,
with a degree of moderation and composure, which
seemed rather consistent with the common feelings of
common life, than with the refined susceptibilities, the
tender emotions which the first separation of a heroine
from her family ought always to excite. Her father,
instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or
even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands,
gave her only ten guineas, and promised her more when
she wanted it.
Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took
place, and the journey began. It was performed with
suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers
nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky overturn to
introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming
occurred than a fear on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once
left her clogs behind her at an inn, and that fortunately
proved to be groundless.
They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight ; —
her eyes were here, there, every where, as they approached
its fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove
through those streets which conducted them to the hotel.
She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.
They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in
Pulteney-street.
It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs,
Allen, that the reader may be able to judge, in what
c 2 manner
( 20 )
manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the
general distress of the work, and how she will, probably,
contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
wretchedness of which a last volume is capable — whether
by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy — whether by
intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning
her out of doors.
Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females,
whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at
there being any men in the world who could like them
well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,
genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentle-
woman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and
a trifling turn of mind, were all that could account for
her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man, like
Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted to
introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going
every where and seeing every thing herself as any young
lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most
harmless delight in being fine ; and our heroine's entree
into life could not take place till after three or four days
had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and
her chaperon was provided with a dress of the newest
fashion. Catherine too made some purchases herself, and
when all these matters were arranged, the important
evening came which was to usher her into the Upper
Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand,
her clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her
maid declared she looked quite as she should do. With
such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass
uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was
always very welcome when it came, but she did not
depend on it.
Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing, that they did not
enter the ball-room till late. The season was full, the
room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed in as well as
they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the
card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.
With
( 21 )
With more care for the safety of "her new gown than for
the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way
through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the
necessary caution would allow ; Catherine, however, kept
close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within her
friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of
a struggling assembly. But to her utter amazement she
found that to proceed along the room was by no means
the way to disengage themselves from the crowd ; it
seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she
had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they
should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances
with perfect convenience. But this was far from being
the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained
even the top of the room, their situation was just the
same ; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high
feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on —
something better was yet in view ; and by a continued
exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves
at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here
there was something less of crowd than below ; and hence
Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the com-
pany beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late
passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she
began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at
a ball : she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaint-
ance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in
such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then,
" I wish you could dance, my dear, — I wish you could
get a partner." For some time her young friend felt
obliged to her for these wishes ; but they were repeated
so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine
grew tired at last, and would thank her no more.
They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose
of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. — Every
body was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze
out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of
disappointment — she was tired of being continually pressed
against
( 9SL )
against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed
nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so
wholly unacquainted, that she could not relieve the
irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a
syllable with any of her fellow captives ; and when at
last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkward-
ness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim,
no gentleman to assist them. — They saw nothing of Mr.
Allen ; and after looking about them in vain for a more
eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of
a table, at which a large party were already placed,
without having any thing to do there, or any body to
speak to, except each other.
Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were
seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. " It
would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she,
" would not it ? — It is such a delicate muslin. — For my
part I have not seen any thing I like so well in the whole
room, I assure you."
" How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine, " not
to have a single acquaintance here ! "
" Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect
serenity, " it is very uncomfortable indeed."
" What shall we do ? — The gentlemen and ladies at
this table look as if they wondered why we came here —
we seem forcing ourselves into their party."
" Aye, so we do. — That is very disagreeable. I wish
we had a large acquaintance here."
" I wish we had any ; — it would be somebody to go to."
" Very true, my dear ; and if we knew anybody we
would join them directly. The Skinners were here last
year — I wish they were here now."
" Had not we better go away as it is ? — Here are no
tea things for us, you see."
" No more there are, indeed. — How very provoking !
But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled
in such a crowd ! How is my head, my dear ? — Somebody
gave me a push that has hurt it I am afraid."
"No,
( 23 )
*' No, indeed, it looks very nice. — But, dear Mrs. Allen,
are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude
of people ? I think you must know somebody."
" I don't upon my word — I wish I did. I wish I had
a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then
I should get you a partner. — I should be so glad to have
you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman ! What
an odd gown she has got on ! — How old fashioned it is !
Look at the back."
After some time they received an offer of tea from one
of their neighbours ; it was thankfully accepted, and this
introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who
offered it, which was the only time that any body spoke
to them during the evening, till they were discovered and
joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.
" Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, " I hope you
have had an agreeable ball."
" Verj'- agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavour-
ing to hide a great yawn.
" I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife,
" I wish we could have got a partner for her. — I have
been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were
here this winter instead of last ; or if the Parrys had
come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with
George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner ! "
" We shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr.
Allen's consolation.
The company began to disperse when the dancing was
over — enough to leave space for the remainder to walk
about in some comfort ; and now was the time for
a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished
part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and
admired. Every five minutes, by removing some of the
crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She was
now seen by many young men who had not been near her
before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder
on beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round
the room, nor was she once called a divinity by any body.
Yet
( 24 )
Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the
company only seen her three years before, they would
710W have thought her exceedingly handsome.
She was looked at however, and with some admiration ;
for, in her own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her
to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect ;
she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she
had found it before — her humble vanity was contented —
she felt more obliged to the two young men for this
simple praise than a true quality heroine would have been
for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went
to her chair in good humour with every body, and per-
fectly satisfied with her share of public attention.
CHAP-
1
( 25 )
CHAPTER III.
Every morning now brought its regular duties ; —
shops were to be visited ; some new part of the town to
be looked at ; and the Pump-room to be attended, where
they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at every
body and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous
acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs.
Allen, and she repeated it after every fresh proof, which
every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at all.
They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms ;
and here fortune was more favourable to our heroine.
The master of the ceremonies introduced to her a very
gentlemanlike young man as a partner ; — his name was
Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty,
was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a very
intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome,
was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine
felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for
speaking while they danced ; but when they were seated
at tea, she found him as agreeable as she had already
given him credit for being. He talked with fluency and
spirit — and there was an archness and pleasantry in his
manner which interested, though it was hardly under-
stood by her. After chatting some time on such matters
as naturally arose from the objects around them, he
suddenly addressed her with — " I have hitherto been very
remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner
here ; I have not yet asked you how long you have been
in Bath ; whether you were ever here before ; whether
you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the
joncert ; and how you like the place altogether. I have
;en very negligent — but are you now at leisure to satisfy
le in these particulars ? If you are I will begin directly."
You need not give yourself that trouble, sir."
•'No
( 26 )■
" No trouble I assure you, madam." Then forming his
features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his
voice, he added, with a simpering air, " Have you been
long in Bath, madam ? '*
" About a week, sir," replied Catherine, trying not to
laugh.
" Really ! " with affected astonishment.
" Why should you be surprized, sir ? "
" Why, indeed ! " said he, in his natural tone — " but
some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply,
and surprize is more easily assumed, and not less reason-
able than any other. — ^Now let us go on. Were you never
here before, madam ? "
" Never, sir."
" Indeed ! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms ?*'
" Yes, sir, I was there last Monday."
*' Have you been to the theatre ? "
" Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday."
" To the concert ? "
" Yes, sir, on Wednesday."
" And are you altogether pleased with Bath ? "
" Yes— I like it very well."
" Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be
rational again."
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing w^hether
she might venture to laugh.
" I see what you think of me," said he gravely — " I
shall make but a poor figure in your journal to-morrow."
" My journal ! "
" Yes, I know exactly what you will say : Friday,
went to the Lower Rooms ; Avore my sprigged muslin
robe with blue trimmings — plain black shoes — appeared
to much advantage ; but was strangelj^ harassed by
a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance
with him, and distressed me by his nonsense."
** Indeed I shall say no such thing."
" Shall I tell you what you ought to say ? "
" If you please."
" I danced
i
( n )
" I danced with a very agreeable young man, intro-
duced by Mr. King ; had a great deal of conversation
with him — seems a most extraordinary genius — hope
I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I xvish
you to say."
" But, perhaps, I keep no journal."
" Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am
not sitting by you. These are points in which a doubt is
equally possible. Not keep a journal ! How are your
absent cousins to understand the tenour of your life in
Bath without one ? How are the civilities and com-
pliments of every day to be related as they ought to be,
unless noted down every evening in a journal ? How are
your various dresses to be remembered, and the particular
state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be
described in all their diversities, without having constant
recourse to a journal ? — My dear madam, I am not so
ignorant of j^oung ladies' ways as you wish to believe me ;
it is this delightful habit of journalizing which largely
contributes to form the easy style of writing for which
ladies are so generally celebrated. Every body allows
that the talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly
female. Nature maj^ have done something, but I am sure
it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping
a journal."
" I have sometimes thought," said Catherine, doubt-
ingly, " whether ladies do write so much better letters
than gentlemen ! That is^ — I should not think the
superiority was always on our side."
" As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears
to me that the usual style of letter- writing among women
is faultless, except in three particulars."
" And what are they ? "
" A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to
stops, and a very frequent ignorance of grammar."
" Upon my word ! I need not have been afraid of dis-
claiming the compliment. You do not think too highly
of us in that way."
"• I should
( 28 )
" I should no more lay it down as a general rule that
women write better letters than men, than that they sing
better duets, or draw better landscapes. In every power,
of which taste is the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly
divided between the sexes."
They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen : — " My dear
Catherine,'* said she, " do take this pin out of my sleeve ;
I am afraid it has torn a hole already ; I shall be quite
sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though it cost
but nine shillings a yard."
" That is exactly what I should have guessed it,
madam," said Mr. Tilney, looking at the muslin.
" Do you understand muslins, sir ? "
" Particularly well ; I always buy my own cravats,
and am allowed to be an excellent judge ; and my sister
has often trusted me in the choice of a gown. I bought
one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be
a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave
but five shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin."
Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. " Men
commonly take so little notice of those things," said she :
" I can never get Mr. Allen to know one of my gowns
from another. You must be a great comfort to your
sister, sir."
" I hope I am, madam."
" And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's
gown ? "
" It is very pretty, madam," said he, gravely examining
it ; " but I do not think it will wash well ; I am afraid
it will fray."
" How can you," said Catherine, laughing, " be so ^"
she had almost said, strange.
" I am quite of your opinion, sir," replied Mrs. Allen .:
'* and so I told Miss Morland when she bought it."
" But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to
some account or other ; Miss Morland will get enough
out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. — Muslin
can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister
say
( 29 )
say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in
buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to
pieces.'*
" Bath is a charming place, sir ; there are so many
good shops here. — We are sadly off in the country ; not
but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is
so far to go ; — eight miles is a long way ; Mr. Allen says
it is nine, measured nine ; but I am sure it cannot be
more than eight ; and it is such a fag — I come back tired
to death. Now here one can step out of doors and get
a thing in five minutes."
Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in
what she said ; and she kept him on the subject of muslins
till the dancing recommenced. Catherine feared, as she
listened to their discourse, that he indulged himself
a little too much with the foibles of others. — " What are
you thinking of so earnestly ? " said he, as they walked
back to the ball-room ; — " not of your partner, I hope,
for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not
satisfactory."
Catherine coloured, and said, " I was not thinking of
any thing."
" That is artful and deep, to be sure ; but I had rather
be told at once that you will not tell me."
" Well then, I will not."
" Thank you ; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as
I am authorized to tease you on this subject whenever
we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so
much."
They danced again ; and, when the assembly closed,
parted, on the lady's side at least, with a strong inclina-
tion for continuing the acquaintance. Whether she
thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine
and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of
him when there, cannot be ascertained ; but I hope it
was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze
at most ; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has
maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling
in
( 30 )
in love before the gentleman's love is declared,* it must
be very improper that a young lady should dream of
a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have
dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as
a dreamer or a lover, had not yet perhaps entered Mr.
Allen's head, but that he was not objectionable as a
common acquaintance for his young charge he was on
inquiry satisfied ; for he had early in the evening taken
pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured
of Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman, and of a ver}^ respect-
able family in Gloucestershire.
♦ Vide a letter from Mr. RichardRon, No. 97, vol. il. Rambler.
CHAP-
( 3J )
CHAPTER IV.
With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten
to the Pump-room the next day, secure within herself of
seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over,
and ready to meet him with a smile : — but no smile was
demanded — Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature
in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at
different periods of the fashionable hours ; crowds of
people were every moment passing in and out, up the
steps and down ; people whom nobody cared about, and
nobody wanted to see ; and he only was absent. " What
a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen, as they sat
down near the great clock, after parading the room till
thej^ were tired ; " and how pleasant it would be if we
had any acquaintance here."
This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain, that
Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be
followed with more advantage now ; but we are told to
" despair of nothing we would attain," as " unwearied
diligence our point would gain ; " and the unwearied
diligence with which she ^had every day wished for the
same thing was at length to have its just reward, for
hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of
about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been
looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed
her with great complaisance in these words : — *' I think,
madam, I cannot be mistaken ; it is a long time since
I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name
Allen ? " This question answered, as it readily was, the
stranger pronounced her's to be Thorpe ; and Mrs. Allen
immediately recognized the features of a former school-
fellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since
their respective marriages, and that many years ago.
Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might,
since
( 32 )
since they had been contented to know nothing of each
other for the last fifteen years. CompHments on good
looks now passed ; and, after observing how time had
slipped away since they were last together, how little they
had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it
was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries
and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and
cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give
than to receive information, and each hearing very little
of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one
great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family
of children ; and when she expatiated on the talents of
her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, — when she
related their different situations and views, — that John
was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant-Taylors', and William
at sea,— and all of them more beloved and respected in
their different station than any other three beings ever
were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no
similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving
ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to
listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself,
however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon
made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe's pelisse was not half
so handsome as that on her own.
" Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing
at three smart looking females, who, arm in arm, were
then moving towards her. " My dear Mrs. Allen, I long
to introduce them ; they will be so delighted to see you :
the tallest is Isabella, my eldest ; is not she a fine young
woman ? The others are very much admired too, but
I believe Isabella is the handsomest."
The Miss Thorpes were introduced ; and Miss Morland,
who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced
likewise. The name seemed to strike them all ; and,
after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young
lady observed aloud to the rest, " How excessively like
her brother Miss Morland is ! "
" The very picture of him indeed ! " cried the mother —
and
( 33 )
and " I should have known her any where for his
sister ! *' was repeated by them all, two or three times
over. For a moment Catherine was surprized ; but Mrs.
Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history
of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before
she remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed
an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the
name of Thorpe ; and that he had spent the last week of
the Christmas vacation with his family, near London.
The whole being explained, many obliging things were
said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better
acquainted with her ; of being considered as already
friends, through the friendship of their brothers, &c.
which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with
all the pretty expressions she could command ; and, as
the first proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept
an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take a turn with
er about the room. Catherine was delighted with this
extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot
Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship
is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed
love.
Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of
which the free discussion has generally much to do in
perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young ladies ;
such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes. Miss Thorpe,
however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and
at least four years better informed, had a very decided
advantage in discussing such points ; she could compare
the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge ; its fashions
with the fashions of London ; could rectify the opinions
of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire ;
could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and
lady who only smiled on each other ; and point out
a quiz through the thickness of a crowd. These powers
received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they
were entirely new ; and the respect which they naturally
inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had
1781.5 D not
( 34 )
not the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe's manners, and her
frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance with
her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left nothing
but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was
not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the Pump-
room, but required, when they all quitted it together,
that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the
very door of Mr. Allen's house ; and that they should
there part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake
of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they
should see each other across the theatre at night, and say
their prayers in the same chapel the next morning.
Catherine then ran directly up stairs, and watched Miss
Thorpe's progress down the street from the drawing-room
window ; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the
fashionable air of her figure and dress, and felt grateful,
as well she might, for the chance which had procured
her such a friend.
Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one ; she
was a good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very
indulgent mother. Her eldest daughter had great personal
beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending to be as
handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing
in the same style, did very well.
This brief account of the family is intended to supersede
the necessity of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe
herself, of her past adventures and sufferings, which might
otherwise be expected to occupy the three or four follow-
ing chapters ; in which the worthlessness of lords and
attornies might be set forth, and conversations, which
had passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.
J
CHAP-
( 35 )
CHAPTER V.
Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre
that evening, in returning the nods and smiles of Miss
Thorpe, though they certainly claimed much of her
leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye for Mr.
Tilney in every box which her eye could reach ; but she
looked in vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play
than the Pump-room. She hoped to be more fortunate
the next day ; and when her wishes for fine weather were
answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt
a doubt of it ; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every
house of its inhabitants, and all the world appears on such
an occasion to walk about and tell their acquaintance
what a charming day it is.
As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and
Aliens eagerly joined each other ; and after staying long
enough in the Pump-room to discover that the crowd was
insupportable, and that there was not a genteel face to
be seen, which every body discovers every Sunday
throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent,
to breathe the fresh air of better company. Here Catherine
and Isabella, arm in arm, again tasted the sweets of
friendship in an unreserved conversation ; — they talked
much, and with much enjoyment; but again was Catherine
disappointed in her hope of re-seeing her partner. He was
no where to be met with ; every search for him was
equally unsuccessful, in morning lounges or evening assem-
blies ; neither at the upper nor lower rooms, at dressed
or undressed balls, was he perceivable ; nor among the
walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the
morning. His name was not in the Pump-room book,
and curiosity could do no more. He must be gone from
Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be
so short ! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always
D 2 so
( 36 )
SO becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine's
imagination around his person and manners, and increased
her anxiety to know more of him. From the Thorpes
she could learn nothing, for they had been only two days
in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a subject,
however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend,
from whom she received every possible encouragement to
continue to think of him ; and his impression on her fancy
was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was very
sure that he must be a charming young man ; and was
equally sure that he must have been delighted with her
dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return. She
liked him the better for being a clergyman, " for she must
confess herself very partial to the profession ; " and some-
thing like a sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps
Catherine was wrong in not demanding the cause of that
gentle emotion — but she was not experienced enough in
the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know
when delicate raillery was properly called for, or when
a confidence should be forced.
Mrs. Allen was now quite happy — quite satisfied with
Bath. She had found some acquaintance, had been so
lucky too as to find in them the family of a most worthy
old friend ; and, as the completion of good fortune, had
found these friends by no means so expensively dressed
as herself. Her daily expressions were no longer, " I wish
we had some acquaintance in Bath ! " They were changed
into — " How glad I am we have met with Mrs. Thorpe ! '*
— and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of
the two families, as her young charge and Isabella them-
selves could be ; never satisfied with the day unless she
spent the chief of it by the side of Mrs. Thorpe, in what
they called conversation, but in which there was scarcely
ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resem-
blance of subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her
children, and Mrs. Allen of her gowns.
The progress of the friendship between Catherine and
Isabella was quick as its beginning had been warm, and
they
( 37 )
passed so rapidly through every gradation of increas-
ing tenderness, that there was shortly no fresh proof of
it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called
each other by their Christian name, were always arm in
arm when they walked, pinned up each other's train for
the dance, and were not to be divided in the set ; and if
a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they
were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt,
and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes,
novels ; — for I will not adopt that ungenerous and
impolitic custom so common with novel writers, of
degrading by their contemptuous censure the very per-
formances, to the number of which they are themselves
adding — joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing
the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever
permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if
she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its
insipid pages with disgust. Alas ! if the heroine of one
novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from
whom can she expect protection and regard ? I cannot
approve of it. Let us leave it to the Reviewers to abuse
such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every
new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with
which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another ;
we are an injured body. Although our productions have
afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than
those of any other literary corporation in the world, no
species of composition has been so much decried. From
pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many
as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-
hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the
man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen
lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the
Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by
a thousand pens,-^-there seems almost a general wish of
decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the
novelist, and of slighting the performances which have
only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. " I am
no
( 38 )
no novel reader — I seldom look into novels — Do not imagine
that / often read novels — It is really very well for a novel."
— Such is the common cant. — " And what are you reading,
Miss ? ** " Oh ! it is only a novel ! " replies the
young lady ; while she lays down her book with affected
indifference, or momentary shame. — " It is only Cecilia,
or Camilla, or Belinda ; " or, in short, only some work
in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed,
in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature,
the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest
effusions of wit and humour are conveyed to the world in
the best chosen language. Now, had the same young
lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator,
instead of such a work, how proudly would she have pro-
duced the book, and told its name ; though the chances
must be against her being occupied by any part of that
voluminous publication, of which either the matter or
manner would not disgust a young person of taste : the
substance of its papers so often consisting in the state-
ment of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters,
and topics of conversation, which no longer concern any
one living ; and their language, too, frequently so coarse
as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could
endure it.
CHAP-
( 39 )
CHAPTER VI.
The following conversation, which took place between
the two friends in the Pump-room one morning, after an
acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen
of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, dis-
cretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which
marked the reasonableness of that attachment.
They met by appointment ; and as Isabella had arrived
nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address
naturally was — " My dearest creature, what can have
made you so late ? I have been waiting for you at least
this age ! "
'" Have you, indeed ! — I am very sorry for it ; but
really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just
one. I hope you have not been here long ? "
'' Oh ! these ten ages at least. I am sure I have been
here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at
the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have
an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was
so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to
set off ; it looked very showery, and that would have
thrown me into agonies ! Do you know, I saw the prettiest
hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom-street
just now — very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons
instead of green ; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest
Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all
this morning ? — Have you gone on with Udolpho ? "
" Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke ; and
I am got to the black veil."
" Are you, indeed ? How delightful ! Oh ! I would
not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world !
Are not you wild to know ? "
" Oh ! yes, quite ; what can it be ? — But do not tell
me — I would not be told upon any account. I know it
must
( 40 )
must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Lauren tina's skeleton.
Oh ! I am delighted with the book ! I should like to
spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had
not been to meet you, I would not have come away from
it for all the world."
" Dear creature ! how much I am obliged to you ;
and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the
Italian together ; and I have made out a list of ten or
twelve more of the same kind for you."
" Have you, indeed ! How glad I am ! — What are
they all ? "
" I will read you their names directly ; here they are,
in my pocket-book. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont,
Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest,
Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.
Those will last us some time."
" Yes, pretty well ; but are they all horrid, are you
sure they are all horrid ? "
" Yes, quite sure ; for a particular friend of mine,
a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures
in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you
knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her.
She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive.
I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed
with the men for not admiring her ! — I scold them all
amazingly about it."
" Scold them ! Do you scold them for not admiring
her ? "
" Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for
those who are really my friends. I have no notion of
loving people by halves, it is not my nature. My attach-
ments are always excessively strong. I told Capt. Hunt
at one of our assemblies this winter, that if he was to
tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless
he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an
angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship you
know, and I am determined to shew them the difference.
Now, if I were to hear any body speak slightingly of you.
I should
d
( 41 )
I should fire up in a moment : — but that is not at all
likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great
favourite with the men."
" Oh ! dear," cried Catherine, colouring, " how can you
say so ? "
" I know you very well ; you have so much animation,
which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must
confess there is something amazingly insipid about her.
Oh ! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday,
I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly — I am
sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and dis-
claimed again. Isabella laughed. " It is very true, upon
my honour, but I see how it is ; you are indifferent to
every body's admiration, except that of one gentleman,
who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you —
(speaking more seriously) — your feelings are easily under-
stood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very
twell how little one can be pleased with the attention of
lany body else. Every thing is so insipid, so uninteresting,
that does not relate to the beloved object ! I can perfectly
comprehend your feehngs."
" But you should not persuade me that I think so very
much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him
again."
" Not see him again ! My dearest creature, do not talk of
it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so."
*' No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say
that I was not very much pleased with him ; but while
I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make
me miserable. Oh ! the dreadful black veil ! My dear
Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton
behind it."
*' It is so odd to me, that you should never have read
Udolpho before ; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to
novels."
" No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles
Grandison herself ; but new books do not fall in our way."
" Sir Charles Grandison ! That is an amazing horrid
book
( 42 )
book, is it not ? — I remember Miss Andrews could not get
through the first volume.'*
" It is not like Udolpho at all ; but yet I think it is
very entertaining.'*
" Do you indeed ! — you surprize me ; I thought it had
not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you
settled what to wear on your head to-night ? I am deter-
mined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The
men take notice of that sometimes you know."
** But it does not signify if they do ; " said Catherine,
very innocently.
" Signify ! Oh, heavens ! I make it a rule never to
mind what they say. They are very often amazingly
impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and
make them keep their distance."
" Are they ? — ^^Vell, I never observed that. They
always behave very well to me."
** Oh ! they give themselves such airs. They are the
most conceited creatures in the world, and think them-
selves of so much importance ! — By the bye, though
I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always
forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in
a man. Do you like them best dark or fair ? "
** I hardly know. I never much thought about it.
Something between both, I think. Brown — not fair, and
not very dark."
" Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not
forgot your description of Mr. Tilney ; — ' a brown skin,
with dark eyes, and rather dark hair.' — Well, my taste is
different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion — do
you know — I like a sallow better than any other. You
must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of
your acquaintance answering that description."
" Betray you ! — ^AVhat do you mean ? "
** Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too
much. Let us drop the subject."
Catherine, in some amazement, complied ; and after
remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of
revertincf
( 43 )
reverting to what interested her at that time rather more
than any tiling else in the world, Laurentina's skeleton ;
when her friend prevented her, by saying, — "For Heaven's
sake ! let us move away from this end of the room. Do
you know, there are two odious young men who have
been staring at me this half hour. They really put me
quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the
arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."
Away they walked to the book ; and while Isabella
examined the names, it was Catherine's employment to
watch the proceedings of these alarming young men.
" They are not coming this way, are they ? I hope they
are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know
if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up.'*
In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure,
assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the
gentlemen had just left the Pump-room.
"And which way are they gone ? " said Isabella, turning
hastily round. " One was a very good-looking young man."
" They went towards the churchyard."
" Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them !
And now, what say you to going to Edgar's Buildings
with me, and looking at my new hat ? You said you
should like to see it."
Catherine readily agreed. *' Only," she added, *' per-
haps we may overtake the two young men."
" Oh ! never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass
by them presently, and I am dying to shew you my hat."
" But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no
danger of our seeing them at all."
" I shall not pay them any such compHment, I assure
you. I have no notion of treating men with such respect.
That is the way to spoil them."
Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reason-
ing ; and therefore, to shew the independence of Miss
Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set
off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of
the two young men.
CHAP.
I 44 )
CHAPTER VII.
Half a minute conducted them through the Pump-
yard to the archway, opposite Union-passage ; but here
they were stopped. Every body acquainted with Bath
may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap-street at
this point ; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature,
so unfortunately connected with the great London and
Oxford roads, and the principal inn of the city, that a day
never passes in which parties of ladies, however important
their business, whether in quest of pastry, millinery, or
even (as in the present case) of young men, are not
detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or
carts. This evil had been felt and lamented, at least
three times a day, by Isabella since her residence in
Bath ; and she was now fated to feel and lament it once
more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to
Union-passage, and within view of the two gentlemen
who were proceeding through the crowds, and threading
the gutters of that interesting alley, they were prevented
crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad
pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all
the vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives
of himself, his companion, and his horse.
" Oh, these odious gigs ! " said Isabella, looking up,
" how I detest them." But this detestation, though so
just, was of short duration, for she looked again and
exclaimed, " Delightful ! Mr. Morland and my brother ! "
" Good heaven ! 'tis James ! " was uttered at the same
moment by Catherine ; and, on catching the young men's
eyes, the horse was immediately checked with a violence
which almost threw him on his haunches, and the servant
having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out,
and the equipage was delivered to his care.
Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected,
received
( 45 )
received her brother with the Kveliest pleasure ; and he,
being of a very amiable disposition, and sincerely attached
to her, gave every proof on his side of equal satisfaction,
which he could have leisure to do, while the bright eyes
of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice ;
and to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture
of joy and embarrassment which might have informed
Catherine, had she been more expert in the developement
of other people's feeUngs, and less simply engrossed by
her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as
pretty as she could do herself.
John Thorpe, who in the mean time had been giving
orders about the horses, soon joined them, and from him
she directly received the amends which were her due ;
for while he slightly and carelessly touched the hand of
Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half
a short bow. He was a stout young man of middling
height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful form,
seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the
dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless
he were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent
where he might be allowed to be easy. He took out his
watch : " How long do you think we have been running
it from Tetbury, Miss Morland ? "
" I do not know the distance." Her brother told her
that it was twenty-three miles.
" TAr^^-and-twenty ! " cried Thorpe ; " five-and-twenty
if it is an inch." Morland remonstrated, pleaded the
authority of road-books, innkeepers, and milestones ;
but his friend disregarded them all ; he had a surer test
of distance. " I know it must be five-and-twenty," said
he, " by the time we have been doing it. It is now half
after one ; we drove out of the inn-yard at Tetbury as
the town-clock struck eleven ; and I defy any man in
England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour
in harness ; that makes it exactly twenty-five."
" You have lost an hour," said Morland ; " it was only
ten o'clock when we came from Tetbury."
"Ten
{ 46 )
" Ten o'clock ! it was eleven, upon my soul ! I counted
every stroke. This brother of yours would persuade me
out of my senses. Miss Morland ; do but look at my
horse ; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in
your life ? " (The servant had just mounted the carriage
and was driving off.) " Such true blood ! Three hours
and a half indeed coming only three-and-twenty miles !
look at that creature, and suppose it possible if you can."
" He does look very hot to be sure."
" Hot ! he had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot
Church : but look at his forehand ; look at his loins ;
only see how he moves ; that horse cannot go less than
ten miles an hour : tie his legs and he will get on. What
do you think of my gig, Miss Morland ? a neat one, is
not it ? Well hung ; town built ; I have not had it
a month. It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend
of mine, a very good sort of fellow ; he ran it a few weeks,
till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with it.
I happened just then to be looking out for some light
thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined
on a curricle too ; but I chanced to meet him on Magdalen
Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term : ' Ah !
Thorpe,' said he, ' do you happen to want such a little
thing as this ? it is a capital one of the kind, but I am
cursed tired of it.' ' Oh ! d ,' said I, ' I am your
man ; what do you ask ? ' And how much do you think
he did, Miss Morland ? "
" I am sure I cannot guess at all."
" Curricle-hung you see ; seat, trunk, sword-case,
splashing-board, lamps, silver moulding, all you see com-
plete ; the iron- work as good as new, or better. He asked
fifty guineas ; I closed with him directly, threw down
the money, and the carriage was mine."
"And I am sure," said Catherine, "I know so little of such
things that I cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear."
" Neither one nor t'other ; I might have got it for less
I dare say ; but I hate haggling, and poor Freeman
wanted cash."
''That
( 47 )
" That was very good-natured of you," said Catherine,
quite pleased.
" Oh ! d it, when one has the means of doing
a kind thing by a friend, I hate to be pitiful."
An inquiry now took place into the intended move-
ments of the young ladies ; and, on finding whither they
were going, it was decided that the gentlemen should
accompany them to Edgar's Buildings, and pay their
respects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the
way ; and so well satisfied was the latter with her lot, so
contentedly was she endeavouring to ensure a pleasant
walk to him who brought the double recommendation of
being her brother's friend, and her friend's brother, so
pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though
they overtook and passed the two offending young men
in Milsom-street, she was so far from seeking to attract
their notice, that she looked back at them only three
times.
John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after
a few minutes' silence, renewed the conversation about
his gig — " You will find, however, Miss Morland, it would
be reckoned a cheap thing by some people, for I might
have sold it for ten guineas more the next day ; Jackson,
of Oriel, bid me sixty at once ; Morland was with me at
the time."
" Yes," said Morland, who overheard this ; " but you
forget that your horse was included."
" My horse ! oh, d it ! I would not sell my horse
for a hundred. Are you fond of an open carriage, Miss
Morland ? "
" Yes, very ; I have hardly ever an opportunity of
being in one ; but I am particularly fond of it."
" I am glad of it ; I will drive you out in mine every day.'*
" Thank you," said Catherine, in some distress, from
a doubt of the propriety of accepting such an offer.
" I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow."
" Thank you ; but will not your horse want rest ? "
*' Rest ! he has only come three-and-twenty miles to-
day;
( 48 )
day ; all nonsense ; nothing ruins horses so much as
rest ; nothing knocks them up so soon. No, no ; I shall
exercise mine at the average of four hours every day
while I am here."
" Shall you indeed ! " said Catherine very seriously,
** that will be forty miles a day."
" Forty ! aye fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive
you up Lansdown to-morrow ; mind, I am engaged."
" How delightful that will be ! " cried Isabella, turning
round ; " my dearest Catherine, I quite envy you ; but
I am afraid, brother, you will not have room for a third."
" A third indeed ! no, no ; I did not come to Bath to
drive my sisters about ; that would be a good joke,
faith ! Morland must take care of you."
This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the
other two ; but Catherine heard neither the particulars
nor the result. Her companion's discourse now sunk
from its hitherto animated pitch, to nothing more than
a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on
the face of every woman they met ; and Catherine, after
listening and agreeing as long as she could, with all the
civility and deference of the youthful female mind, fearful
of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that
of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her
own sex is concerned, ventured at length to vary the
subject by a question which had been long uppermost in
her thoughts ; it was, " Have you ever read Udolpho,
Mr. Thorpe ? "
" Udolpho ! Oh, Lord ! not I ; I never read novels ;
I have something else to do."
Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize
for her question, but he prevented her by saying, " Novels
are all so full of nonsense and stuff ; there has not been
a tolerably decent one come out since Tom Jones, except
the Monk ; I read that t'other day ; but as for all the
others, they are the stupidest things in creation."
" I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read
it ; it is so very interesting."
" Not
( 49 )
*' Not I, faith ! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs.
uadcliff' s ; her novels are amusing enough ; they are
worth reading ; some fun and nature in ihem,^^
" Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliff," said Catherine,
with some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
" No sure ; was it ? Aye, I remember, so it was ;
I was thinking of that other stupid book, written by that
woman they make such a fuss about, she who married
the French emigrant."
" I suppose you mean Camilla ? "
" Yes, that's the book ; such unnatural stuff ! — An
old man playing at see-saw ! I took up the first volume
once, and looked it over, but I soon found it would not
do ; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be before
I saw it : as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant,
I was sure I should never be able to get through it."
" I have never read it."
" You had no loss I assure you ; it is the horridest
nonsense you can imagine ; there is nothing in the world
in it but an old man's playing at see-saw and learning
Latin ; upon my soul there is not."
This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately
lost on poor Catherine, brought them to the door of
Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and the feelings of the discerning
and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way to the
feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met
Mrs. Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the
passage. " Ah, mother ! how do you do ? " said he,
giving her a hearty shake of the hand : " where did you
get that quiz of a hat, it makes you look like an old
witch ? Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days
with you, so you must look out for a couple of good beds
some where near." And this address seemed to satisfy all
the fondest wishes of the mother's heart, for she received
him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On
his two younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion
of his fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of them how
they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly.
""•5 E These
( 60 )
These manners did not please Catherine ; but he was
James's friend and Isabella's brother ; and her judgment
was further bought off by Isabella's assuring her, when
they withdrew to see the new hat, that John thought her
the most charming girl in the world, and by John's
engaging her before they parted to dance with him that
evening. Had she been older or vainer, such attacks
might have done little ; but, where youth and diffidence
are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of reason to
resist the attraction of being called the most charming
girl in the world, and of being so very early engaged as
a partner ; and the consequence was, that, when the two
Morlands, after sitting an hour with the Thorpes, set off
to walk together to Mr. Allen's, and James, as the door
was closed on them, said, " Well, Catherine, how do you like
my friend Thorpe ? " instead of answering, as she probably
would have done, had there been no friendship and no
flattery in the case, "I do not like him at all; " she directly
replied, " I like him very much ; he seems very agreeable."
" He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived ; a little
of a rattle ; but that will recommend him to your sex
I believe : and how do you like the rest of the family ? "
" Very, very much indeed : Isabella particularly."
" I am very glad to hear you say so ; she is just the
kind of young woman I could wish to see you attached
to ; she has so much good sense, and is so thoroughly
unaffected and amiable ; I always wanted you to know
her ; and she seems very fond of you. She said the
highest things in your praise that could possibly be; and the
praise of such a girl as Miss Thorpe even you, Catherine,'*
taking her hand with affection, " may be proud of."
" Indeed I am," she replied ; "I love her exceedingly,
and am delighted to find that you like her too. You
hardly mentioned any thing of her, when you wrote to
me after your visit there."
" Because I thought I should soon see you myself.
I hope you will be a great deal together while you are in
Bath, She is a most amiable girl ; such a superior under-
standing !
( 51 )
standing ! How fond all the family are of her ; she is
evidently the general favourite ; and how much she must
be admired in such a place as this — is not she ? "
" Yes, very much indeed, I fancy ; Mr. Allen thinks
her the prettiest girl in Bath."
" I dare say he does ; and I do not know any man who
is a better judge of beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not
ask you whether you are happy here, my dear Catherine ;
with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it
would be impossible for you to be otherwise ; and the
Aliens I am sure are very kind to you ? "
" Yes, very kind ; I never was so happy before ; and
now you are come it will be more delightful than ever ;
how good it is of you to come so far on purpose to see meJ^
James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified
his conscience for accepting it too, by saying with perfect
sincerity, " Indeed, Catherine, I love you dearly."
Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and
sisters, the situation of some, the growth of the rest, and
other family matters, now passed between them, and con-
tinued, with only one small digression on James's part,
in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney-
street, where he was welcomed with great kindness by
Mr. and Mrs. Allen, invited by the former to dine with
them, and summoned by the latter to guess the price and
weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet. A pre-
engagement in Edgar's Buildings prevented his accepting
the invitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry
away as soon as he had satisfied the demands of the
other. The time of the two parties uniting in the Octagon
Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was then left
to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened imagina-
tion over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly
concerns of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing
Mrs. Allen's fears on the delay of an expected dress-
maker, and having only one minute in sixty to bestow
even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already
engaged for the evening.
E 2 CHAP-
( 52 )
CHAPTER VIII.
In spite of Udolpho and the dress-maker, however, the
party from Pulteney-street reached the Upper-rooms in
very good time. The Thorpes and James Morland were
there only two minutes before them ; and Isabella having
gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend
with the most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring
the set of her gown, and envying the curl of her hair,
they followed their chaperons, arm in arm, into the ball-
room, whispering to each other whenever a thought
occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by
a squeeze of the hand or a smile of affection.
The dancing began within a few minutes after they
were seated ; and James, who had been engaged quite as
long as his sister, was very importunate with Isabella to
stand up ; but John was gone into the card-room to
speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should
induce her to join the set before her dear Catherine could
join it too : " I assure you," said she, " I would not
stand up without your dear sister for all the world ; for
if I did we should certainly be separated the whole even-
ing." Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude,
and they continued as they were for three minutes longer,
when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the
other side of her, turned again to his sister and whispered,
" My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you, your
brother is so amazingly impatient to begin ; I know you
will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will
be back in a moment, and then you may easily find me
out." Catherine, though a little disappointed, had too
much good-nature to make any opposition, and the others
rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend's
hand and say, " Good bye, my dear love," before they
hurried off. The younger Miss Thorpes being also danc-
ing.
( 53 )
ing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and
Mrs. Allen, between whom she now remained. She could
not help being vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe,
for she not only longed to be dancing, but was likewise
aware that, as the real dignity of her situation could not
be known, she was sharing with the scores of other young
ladies still sitting down all the discredit of wanting
a partner. To be disgraced in the eye of the world, to
wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all
purity, her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of
another the true source of her debasement, is one of
those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the
heroine's life, and her fortitude under it what particularly
dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too ;
she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips.
From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the
end of ten minutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not
Mr. Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney, within three yards of the
place where they sat ; he seemed to be moving that way,
but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and the
blush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine,
passed away without sullying her heroic importance. He
looked as handsome and as lively as ever, and was talking
with interest to a fashionable and pleasing-looking young
woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine
immediately guessed to be his sister ; thus unthinkingly
throwing away a fair opportunity of considering him lost
to her for ever, by being married already. But guided
only by what was simple and probable, it had never
entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married ; he
had not behaved, he had not talked, like the married
men to whom she had been used ; he had never men-
tioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister. From
these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his
sister's now being by his side ; and therefore, instead of
turning of a deathlike paleness, and falling in a fit on Mrs.
Allen's bosom, Catherine sat erect, in the perfect use of
her senses, and with cheeks only a little redder than usual.
Mr.
( 54 )
Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though
slowly, to approach, were immediately preceded by a lady,
an acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe ; and this lady stopping
to speak to her, they, as belonging to her, stopped like-
wise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney's eye, instantly
received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She
returned it with pleasure, and then advancing still nearer,
he spoke both to her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was
very civilly acknowledged. " I am very happy to see
you again, sir, indeed ; I was afraid you had left Bath."
He thanked her for her fears, and said that he had quitted
it for a week, on the very morning after his having had
the pleasure of seeing her.
" Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back
again, for it is just the place for young people — and
indeed for every body else too. I tell Mr. Allen, when
he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he should not
complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is
much better to be here than at home at this dull time of
year. I tell him he is quite in luck to be sent here for
his health."
" And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged
to like the place, from finding it of service to him."
" Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. —
A neighbour of ours. Dr. Skinner, was here for his health
last winter, and came away quite stout."
" That circumstance must give great encouragement."
" Yes, sir — and Dr. Skinner and his family were here
three months ; so I tell Mr. Allen he must not be in
a hurry to get away."
Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs.
Thorpe to Mrs. Allen, that she would move a little to
accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney with seats, as
they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly
done, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them ;
and after a few minutes consideration, he asked Catherine
to dance with him. This compliment, delightful as it
was, produced severe mortification to the lady ; and in
giving
( 55 )
giving her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion
so very much as if she really felt it, that had Thorpe, who
joined her just afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he
might have thought her sufferings rather too acute. The
very easy manner in which he then told her that he had
kept her waiting, did not by any means reconcile her
more to her lot ; nor did the particulars which he entered
into while they were standing up, of the horses and dogs
of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed
exchange of terriers between them, interest her so much
as to prevent her looking very often towards that part of
the room where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear
Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out
that gentlemen, she could see nothing. They were in
different sets. She was separated from all her party,
and away from all her acquaintance ; — one mortification
succeeded another, and from the whole she deduced this
useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a ball, does
not necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment
of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this,
she was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and
turning round, perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind
her, attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman. " I beg
your pardon. Miss Morland," said she, " for this liberty,—
but I cannot any how get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs.
Thorpe said she was sure you would not have the least
objection to letting in this young lady by you." Mrs.
Hughes could not have applied to any creature in the
room more happy to oblige her than Catherine. The
young ladies were introduced to each other, Miss Tilney
expressing a proper sense of such goodness, Miss Morland
with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light
of the obligation ; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having
BO respectably settled her young charge, returned to her
party.
Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very
agreeable countenance ; and her air, though it had not
all the decided pretension, the resolute stilishness of
Miss
( 56 )
Miss Thorpe's, had more real elegance. Her manners
shewed good sense and good breeding ; they were neither
shy, nor affectedly open ; and she seemed capable of
being young, attractive, and at a ball, without wanting
to fix the attention of every man near her, and without
exaggerated feelings of extatic delight or inconceivable
vexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine,
interested at once by her appearance and her relationship
to Mr. Tilney, was desirous of being acquainted with her,
and readily talked therefore whenever she could think
of any thing to say, and had courage and leisure for
saying it. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a verj^
speedy intimacy, by the frequent want of one or more of
these requisites, prevented their doing more than going
through the first rudiments of an acquaintance, by in-
forming themselves how well the other liked Bath, how
much she admired its buildings and surrounding country,
whether she drew, or played or sang, and whether she
was fond of riding on horseback.
The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine
found her arm gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who
in great spirits exclaimed — " At last I have got you. My
dearest creature, I have been looking for you this hour.
What could induce you to come into this set, when you
knew I was in the other ? I have been quite wretched
without you."
" My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get
at you ? I could not even see where you were."
"So I told your brother all the time — but he would
not believe me. Do go and see for her, Mr. Morland, said
I— but all in vain — he would not stir an inch. Was not
it so, Mr. Morland ? But you men are all so immoderately
lazy ! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear
Catherine, you would be quite amazed. — You know
I never stand upon ceremony with such people."
" Look at that young lady with the white beads round
lier head," whispered Catherine, detaching her friend
from James — " It is Mr. Tilney's sister,"
" Oh !
I( 57 )
" Oh ! heavens ! You don't say so ! Let me look at
er this moment. What a dehghtful girl ! I never saw
any thing half so beautiful ! But where is her all-conquer-
l^^ng brother ? Is he in the room ? Point him out to me
IHhis instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you
are not to listen. We are not talking about you."
" But what is all this whispering about ? What is
going on ? "
" There now, I knew how it would be. You men have
such restless curiosity ! Talk of the curiosity of women,
indeed ! — 'tis nothing. But be satisfied, for you are not
to know any thing at all of the matter."
" And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think ? "
" Well, I declare I never knew any thing like you.
What can it signify to you, what we are talking of ?
Perhaps we are talking about you, therefore I would
advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear
something not very agreeable."
In this common-place chatter, which lasted some time,
the original subject seemed entirely forgotten ; and
though Catherine was very well pleased to have it dropped
for a while, she could not avoid a little suspicion at the
total suspension of all Isabella's impatient desire to see
Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance,
James would have led his fair partner away, but she
resisted. " I tell you, Mr. Morland," she cried, " I would
not do such a thing for all the world. How can you be so
teasing ; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your
brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him
again, though I tell him that it is a most improper
thing, and entirely against the rules. It would make
us the talk of the place, if we were not to change
partners."
*' Upon my honour," said James, " in these public
assemblies, it is as often done as not."
" Nonsense, how can you say so ? But when you men
have a point to carry, you never stick at any thing. My
3weet Catherine, do support me, persuade your brother
how
( 58 )
how impossible it is. Tell him, that it Avoiild quite shock
you to see me do such a thing ; now would not it ? "
" No, not at all ; but if you think it wrong, you had
much better change."
" There," cried Isabella, " you hear what your sister
says, and yet you will not mind her. Well, remember
that it is not my fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath
in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine, for
heaven's sake, and stand by me." And off they went,
to regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the mean-
while, had walked away ; and Catherine, ever willing to
give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable
request which had already flattered her once, made her
way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could,
in the hope of finding him still with them — a hope which,
when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly
unreasonable. " Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thorpe,
impatient for praise of her son, " I hope you have had
an agreeable partner."
" Very agreeable, madam."
" I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has
not he ? "
" Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear ? " said Mrs.
Allen.
" No, where is he ? "
" He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of
lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance ;
so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with
you."
" Where can he be ? " said Catherine, looking round ;
but she had not looked round long before she saw him
leading a young lady to the dance.
" Ah ! he has got a partner, I wish he had asked t/ow,"
said Mrs. Allen ; and after a short silence, she added,
" he is a very agreeable young man."
" Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen," said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling
complacently ; "I must say it, though I am his mother,
that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world."
This
( 59 )
This inapplicable answer might have been too much for
the comprehension of many ; but it did not puzzle Mrs.
Allen, for after only a moment's consideration, she said,
I Kin a whisper to Catherine, " I dare say she thought I was
Hkpeaking of her son."
Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to
have missed by so little the very object she had had in
view ; and this persuasion did not incline her to a very
gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her soon
afterwards, and said, " Well, Miss Morland, I suppose
you and I are to stand up and jig it together again."
" Oh, no ; I am much obliged to you, our two dances
are over ; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to
dance any more."
*' Do not you ? — then let us walk about and quiz
people. Come along with me, and I will shew you the
four greatest quizzers in the room ; my two younger
sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them
this half hour."
Again Catherine excused herself ; and at last he walked
off to quiz his sisters by himself. The rest of the evening
she found very dull ; Mr. Tilney was drawn away from
their party at tea, to attend that of his partner ; MisS
Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and
James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing
together, that the latter had no leisure to bestow more
on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one
*' dearest Catherine." ^
CHAP-
( 60 )
CHAPTER IX.
The progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the
events of the evening, was as follows. It appeared first
in a general dissatisfaction with every body about her,
while she remained in the rooms, which speedily brought
on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home.
This, on arriving in Pulteney-street, took the direction
of extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased,
changed into an earnest longing to be in bed ; such was
the extreme point of her distress ; for when there she
immediately fell into a sound sleej) which lasted nine
hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived, in
excellent sjnrits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes.
The first wish of her heart was to improve her acquaint-
ance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to
seek her for that purpose, in the Pump-room at noon. In
the Pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must be
met with, and that building she had already found so
favourable for the discovery of female excellence, and the
completion of female intimacy, so admirably adapted for
secret discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was
most reasonably encouraged to expect another friend
from within its walls. Her plan for the morning thus
settled, she sat quietly down to her book after breakfast,
resolving to remain in the same place and the same
employment till the clock struck one ; and from habitude
very little incommoded by the remarks and ejaculations
of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for
thinking were such, that as she never talked a great deal,
so she could never be entirely silent ; and, therefore,
while she sat at her work, if she lost her needle or broke
her thread, if she heard a carriage in the street, or saw
a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud,
whether there were any one at leisure to answer her or
not.
( 61 )
not. At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap
drew her in haste to the window, and scarcely had she
time to inform Catherine of there being two open carriages
at the door, in the first only a servant, her brother driv-
ing Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came
running up stairs, calling out, " Well, Miss Morland, here
I am. Have you been waiting long ? We could not come
before ; the old devil of a coachmaker was such an
eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into, and now
it is ten thousand to one, but they break down before we
are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen ?
a famous ball last night, was not it ? Come, Miss Morland,
be quick, for the others are in a confounded hurry to be
off. They want to get their tumble over."
" What do you mean ? " said Catherine, *' where are
you all going to ? "
" Going to ? why, you have not forgot our engagement !
Did not we agree together to take a drive this morning ?
What a head you have ! We are going up Claverton
Down."
" Something was said about it, I remember," said
Catherine, looking at Mrs. Allen for her opinion ; " but
really I did not expect you."
" Not expect me ! that's a good one ! And what
a dust you would have made, if I had not come."
Catherine's silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was
entirely thrown away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in
the habit of conveying any expression herself by a look,
was not aware of its being ever intended by any body
else ; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney
again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour
of a drive, and who thought there could be no impropriety
in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as Isabella was going at
the same time with James, was therefore obliged to speak
plainer. " Well, ma'am, what do you say to it ? Can
you spare me for an hour or two ? shall I go ? "
" Do just as you please, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen,
with the most placid indifference. Catherine took the
advice.
( 62 )
advice, and ran off to get ready. In a very few minutes
she re-appeared, having scarcely allowed the two others
time enough to get through a few short sentences in her
praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen's admira-
tion of his gig ; and then receiving her friend's parting
good wishes, they both hurried down stairs. " My dearest
creature," cried Isabella, to whom the duty of friendship
immediately called her before she could get into the
carriage, " you have been at least three hours getting
ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball
we had last night. I have a thousand things to say to
you ; but make haste and get in, for I long to be off."
Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but
not too soon to hear her friend exclaim aloud to James,
" What a sweet girl she is ! I quite doat on her.'*
" You will not be frightened. Miss Morland," said
Thorpe, as he handed her in, " if my horse should dance
about a little at first setting off. He will, most likely,
give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest for a
minute ; but he will soon know his master. He is full
of spirits, playful as can be, but there is no vice in him."
Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting
one, but it was too late to retreat, and she was too young
to own herself frightened ; so, resigning herself to her
fate, and trusting to the animal's boasted knowledge of
its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit
down by her. Every thing being then arranged, the
servant who stood at the horse's head was bid in an
important voice " to let him go," and off they went in
the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or
a caper, or any thing like one. Catherine, delighted at
so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful
surprize ; and her companion immediately made the
matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was
entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in
which he had then held the reins, and the singular dis-
cernment and dexterity with which he had directed his
whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering
that
( 63 )
that with such perfect command of his horse, he should
think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks,
congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care
Hpf so excellent a coachman ; and perceiving that the
^Knimal continued to go on in the same quiet manner,
^Rrithout shewing the smallest propensity towards any
I^Bppleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace
^Hras ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave
'^^erself up to all the enjoyment of air and exercise of the
most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February,
with the consciousness of safety. A silence of several
minutes succeeded their first short dialogue ; — it was
broken by Thorpe's saying very abruptly, " Old Allen is
as rich as a Jew — is not he ? " Catherine did not under-
stand him — and he repeated his question, adding in
explanation, " Old Allen, the man you are with."
" Oh I Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very
rich."
" And no children at all ? "
" No— not any."
" A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your god-
father, is not he ? "
" My godfather !— no."
" But you are always very much with them."
" Yes, very much."
" Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of
old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his time,
I dare say ; he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink
his bottle a-day now ? "
" His bottle a-day ! — no. Why should you think of
such a thing ? He is a very temperate man, and you
could not fancy him in liquor last night ? "
" Lord help you ! — You women are always thinking of
men's being in liquor. Why you do not suppose a man
is overset by a bottle ? I am sure of this — ^that if every
body was to drink their bottle a-day, there would not be
half the disorders in the world there are now. It would
be a famous good thing for us all."
" I can-
( 64 )
" I cannot believe it."
" Oh ! lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There
IS not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this
kingdom, that there ought to be. Our foggy climate
wants help."
" And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of
wine drank in Oxford."
" Oxford ! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I
assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly
meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints at the
utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable
thing at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average
we cleared about five pints a head. It was looked upon
as something out of the common way. Mine is famous
good stuff to be sure. You would not often meet with
any thing like it in Oxford — and that may account for it.
But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of
drinking there."
" Yes, it does give a notion," said Catherine, warmly,
" and that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine
than I thought you did. However, I am sure James does
not drink so much."
This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering
reply, of which no part was very distinct, except the
frequent exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, which
adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it ended, with
rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of
wine drank in Oxford, and the same happy conviction
of her brother's comparative sobriety.
Thorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his
own equipage, and she was called on to admire the spirit
and freedom with which his horse moved along, and the
ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of the
springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed
him in all his admiration as well as she could. To go
before, or beyond him was impossible. His knowledge
and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of expression,
and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power ;
she
C 65 )
ihe could strike out nothing new in commendation, but
she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it
was finally settled between them without any difficulty,
that his equipage was altogether the most complete of
its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the
best goer, and himself the best coachman. — " You do not
really think, Mr. Thorpe," said Catherine, venturing after
some time to consider the matter as entirely decided, and
to offer some little variation on the subject, " that James's
gig will break down ? "
" Break down ! Oh ! lord ! Did you ever see such
a little tittuppy thing in your life ? There is not a sound
piece of iron about it. The wheels have been fairly worn
out these ten years at least — and as for the body ! Upon
my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with
a touch. It is the most devilish little ricketty business
I ever beheld ! — ^Thank God ! we have got a better^
I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty
thousand pounds."
" Good heavens ! " cried Catherine, quite frightened,
" then pray let us turn back ; they will certainly meet
with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr.
Thorpe ; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him
how very unsafe it is."
" Unsafe ! Oh, lord ! what is there in that ? they will
only get a roll if it does break down ; and there is plenty
of dirt, it will be excellent falling. Oh, curse it ! the
carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it ;
a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty
years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you ! I would
undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back
again, without losing a nail."
Catherine listened with astonishment ; she knew not
low to reconcile two such very different accounts of the
ime thing ; for she had not been brought up to under-
stand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how
lany idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess
* vanity will lead. Her own family were plain matter-
"81^ F of-fact
( 66 )
of-fact people, who seldom aimed at wit of any kind :
her father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun,
and her mother with a proverb ; they were not in the
habit therefore of telling lies to increase their importance,
or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict
the next. She reflected on the affair for some time in
much perplexity, and was more than once on the point
of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his
real opinion on the subject ; but she checked herself,
because it appeared to her that he did not excel in giving
those clearer insights, in making those things plain which
he had before made ambiguous ; and, joining to this, the
consideration, that he would not really suffer his sister
and his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he
might easily preserve them, she concluded at last, that
he must know the carriage to be in fact perfectly safe,
and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the
whole matter seemed entirely forgotten ; and all the rest
of his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with
himself and his own concerns. He told her of horses
which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible
sums ; of racing matches, in which his judgment had
infallibly foretold the winner ; of shooting parties, in
which he had killed more birds (though without having
one good shot) than all his companions together ; and
described to her some famous day's sport, with the fox-
hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the
dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced
huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though
it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had
been constantly leading others into difiiculties, which he
calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.
Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for her-
self, and unfixed as were her general notions of what men
ought to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt, while
she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of his
being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold
surmise, for he was Isabella's brother ; and she had been
assured
( 67 )
assured by James, that his manners would recommend
him to all her sex ; but in spite of this, the extreme
weariness of his company, which crept over her before
they had been out an hour, and which continued unceas-
ingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney-street
again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such
high authority, and to distrust his powers of giving
universal pleasure.
When they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, the astonish-
ment of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding
that it was too late in the day for them to attend her
friend into the house : — " Past three o'clock ! " it was
inconceivable, incredible, impossible ! and she would
neither believe her own watch, nor her brother's, nor the
servant's ; she would believe no assurance of it founded
on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch,
and ascertained the fact ; to have doubted a moment
longer theUy would have been equally inconceivable, in-
credible, and impossible ; and she could only protest,
over and over again, that no two hours and a half had
ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called
on to confirm ; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even
to please Isabella ; but the latter was spared the misery
of her friend's dissenting voice, by not waiting for her
answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her ; her
wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to
go directly home. — It was ages since she had had a
naoment's conversation with her dearest Catherine ; and,
though she had such thousands of things to say to her,
it appeared as if they were never to be together again ;
so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing
eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and
went on.
Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the
bu.sy idleness of the morning, and was immediately
greeted with, " Well, my dear, here you are ; " a truth
which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute ;
" and I hope you have had a pleasant airing ? "
F 2 " Yes,
( 68 )
" Yes, ma'am, I thank you ; we could not have had
a nicer day."
" So Mrs. Thorpe said ; she was vastly pleased at your
all going."
" You have seen Mrs. Thorpe then ? "
" Yes, I went to the Pump-room as soon as you were
gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of
talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be
got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."
'' Did you see any body else of our acquaintance ? "
" Yes ; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and
there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walk-
ing with her."
" Did you indeed ? and did they speak to you ? "
" Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half
an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney
was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what
I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely.
Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family."
" And what did she tell you of them ? "
" Oh ! a vast deal indeed ; she hardly talked of any
thing else."
" Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they
come from ? "
" Yes, she did ; but I cannot recollect now. But they
are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney
was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were
school-fellows ; and Miss Drummond had a very large
fortune ; and, when she married, her father gave her
twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy
wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after
they came from the warehouse."
" And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath ? "
" Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain.
Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are both
dead ; at least the mother is ; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney
is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very
beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his
daughter
( 69 )
daughter on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has
got now, for they were put by for her when her mother
died."
" And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son ? "
" I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear ;
i have some idea he is ; but, however, he is a very fine
young man Mrs. Hughes says, and Hkely to do very
well."
Catherine inquired no further ; she had heard enough
to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give,
and that she was most particularly unfortunate herself
in having missed such a meeting with both brother and
sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,
nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the
others ; and, as it was, she could only lament her ill-luck,
and think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her,
that the drive had by no means been very pleasant and
that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.
CHAP-
( 70 )
CHAPTER X.
The Aliens, Thorpes, and Morlands, all met in the
evening at the theatre ; and, as Catherine and Isabella
sat together, there was then an opportunity for the latter
to utter some few of the many thousand things which
had been collecting within her for communication, in the
immeasurable length of time which had divided them. —
*' Oh, heavens ! my beloved Catherine, have I got you at
last ? " was her address on Catherine's entering the box
and sitting by her. *' Now, Mr. Morland," for he was
close to her on the other side, *' I shall not speak another
word to you all the rest of the evening ; so I charge you
not to expect it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you
been this long age ? but I need not ask you, for you look
delightfully. You really have done your hair in a more
heavenly style than ever : you mischievous creature, do
you want to attract every body ? I assure you, my
brother is quite in love with you already ; and as for
Mr. Tilney — but that is a settled thing — even your modesty
cannot doubt his attachment now ; his coming back to
Bath makes it too plain. Oh ! what would not I give to
see him ! I really am quite wild with impatience. My
mother says he is the most delightful young man in the
world ; she saw him this morning you know : you must
introduce him to me. Is he in the house now ? — Look
about for heaven's sake ! I assure you, I can hardly
exist till I see him."
" No," said Catherine, "he is not here ; I cannot see
him any where."
" Oh, horrid ! am I never to be acquainted with him ?
How do you like my gown ? I think it does not look
amiss ; the sleeves were entirely my own thought. Do
you know I get so immoderately sick of Bath ; j^our
brother and I were agreeing this morning that, though it
is
( 71 )
is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not
live here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes
were exactly alike in preferring the country to every
other place ; really, our opinions were so exactly the
same, it was quite ridiculous ! There was not a single
point in which we differed ; I would not have had you
by for the world ; you are such a sly thing, I am sure
you would have made some droll remark or other about it.'*
*' No, indeed I should not."
" Oh, yes you would indeed ; I know you better than
you know yourself. You would have told us that we
seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that
kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception ;
my cheeks would have been as red as your roses ; I would
not have had you by for the world."
" Indeed you do me injustice ; I would not have made
so improper a remark upon any account ; and besides,
I am sure it would never have entered my head."
Isabella smiled incredulously, and talked the rest of
the evening to James.
Catherine's resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss
Tilney again continued in full force the next morning ;
and till the usual moment of going to the Pump-room,
she felt some alarm from the dread of a second prevention.
But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared
to delay them, and they all three set off in good time for
the Pump-room, where the ordinary course of events and
conversation took place ; Mr. Allen, after drinking his
glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk oyer the
politics of the day and compare the accounts of their
newspapers ; and the ladies walked about together,
noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet in
the room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended
by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less
than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately
took her usual place by the side of her friend. James,
who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar
•position, and separating themselves from the rest of their
party,
( 72 )
party, they walked in that manner for some time, till
Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation
which confining her entirely to her friend and brother,
gave her very little share in the notice of either. They
were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or
lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such
whispering voices, and their vivacity attended Avith so
much laughter, that though Catherine's supporting opinion
was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she
was never able to give any, from not having heard a word
of the subject. At length however she was empowered to
disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity
of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw
just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she
instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be
acquainted, than she might have had courage to com-
mand, had she not been urged by the disappointment of
the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility,
returned her advances with equal good will, and they
continued talking together as long as both parties re-
mained in the room ; and though in all probability not
an observation was made, nor an expression used by
either which had not been made and used some thousands
of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season,
yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and
truth, and without personal conceit, might be something
uncommon. —
" How well your brother dances ! " was an artless
exclamation of Catherine's towards the close of their con-
versation, which at once surprized and amused her
companion.
" Henry ! " she replied with a smile. " Yes, he does
dance very well."
" He must have thought it very odd to hear me say
I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting
down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to
Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. " You
cannot think," added Catherine after a moment's silence,
" how
( 73 )
how surprized I was to see him again. I felt so sure
of his being quite gone away."
" When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before,
he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only
to engage lodgings for us."
" Tiiat never occurred to me ; and of course, not seeing
him any where, I thought he must be gone. Was not the
young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith ? "
" Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes."
"I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think
her pretty ? "
" Not very."
" He never comes to the Pump-room, I suppose ? "
" Yes, sometimes ; but he has rid out this morning
with my father."
Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney
if she was ready to go. " I hope I shall have the pleasure
of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. " Shall you
be at the cotillion ball to-morrow ? "
" Perhaps we yes, I think we certainly shall."
" I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." — This
civility was duly returned ; and they parted — on Miss
Tilney's side with some knowledge of her new acquaint-
ance's feelings, and on Catherine's, without the smallest
consciousness of having explained them.
She went home very happy. The morning had answered
all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was
now the object of expectation, the future good. What
gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion
became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it.
Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive
solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine
knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her
a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before ; and
yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night
debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin,
and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her
buying a new one for the evening. This would have been
an
( 74 )
an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from
which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother
rather than a great aunt might have warned her, for man
only can be aware of the insensibiUty of man towards
a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of
many ladies, could they be made to understand how little
the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in
their attire ; how little it is biassed by the texture of their
muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness
towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull or the jackonet.
Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man
will admire her the more, no woman will like her the
better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the
former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety
will be most endearing to the latter. — But not one of
these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of
Catherine.
She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feel-
ings very different from what had attended her thither
the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her
engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to
avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again ; for
though she could not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney
should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes
and plans all centered in nothing less. Every young lady
may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every
young lady has at some time or other known the same
agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed
themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of some one
whom they wished to avoid ; and all have been anxious
for the attentions of some one whom they wished to
please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes,
Catherine's agony began ; she fidgetted about if John
Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible
from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not
to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-
dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.
" Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine," whispered
Isabella,
( T5 )
Isabella, " but I am really going to dance with your
brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking.
I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and
John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear
creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he
will be back in a moment."
Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer.
The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view,
and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not
appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her
eyes intently fixed on her fan ; and a self-condemnation
for her folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they
should even meet with the Tilneys in any reasonable
time, had just passed through her mind, when she sud-
denly found herself addressed and again solicited to
dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes
and ready motion she granted his request, and with how
pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set,
may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed,
so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so
immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as
if he had sought her on purpose ! — it did not appear to
her that life could supply any greater felicity.
Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet
possession of a place, however, when her attention was
claimed by John Thorpe, who stood behind her. *' Hey-
day, Miss Morland ! " said he, " what is the meaning of
this ? — I thought you and I were to dance together."
" I wonder you should think so, for you never asked
me." " That is a good one, by Jove ! — I asked you as
soon as I came into the room, and I was just going to
ask you again, but when I turned round, you were gone !
— this is a cursed shabby trick ! I only came for the sake
of dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were
engaged to me ever since Monday. Yes ; I remember,
I asked you while you were waiting in the lobb)^ for your
cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance
that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the
room ;
( 76 )
room ; and when they see you standing up with some-
body else, they will quiz me famously."
" Oh, no ; they will never think of iiie^ after such
a description as that."
" By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of
the room for blockheads. What chap have you there ? "
Catherine satisfied his curiosity. " Tilney," he repeated,
" Hum — I do not know him. A good figure of a man ;
well put together. — Does he want a horse ? — Here is
a friend of mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that
would suit any body. A famous clever animal for the
road — only forty guineas. I had fifty minds to buy it
myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good
horse when I meet with one ; but it would not answer
my purpose, it would not do for the field. I would give
any money for a real good hunter. I have three now, the
best that ever were back'd. I would not take eight
hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get
a house in Leicestershire, against the next season. It is
so d uncomfortable, living at an inn."
This was the last sentence by which he could weary
Catherine's attention, for he was just then born off by
the resistless pressure of a long string of passing ladies.
Her partner now drew near, and said, " That gentleman
would have put me out of patience, had he staid with
you half a minute longer. He has no business to with-
draw the attention of my partner from me. We have
entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the
space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs
solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten
themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the
rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an
emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are
the principal duties of both ; and those men who
do not chuse to dance or marry themselves, have no
business with the partners or wives of their neigh-
bours."
" But they are such very different things ! — "
" —That
( 77 )
" — ^That you think they cannot be compared to-
gether."
"To be sure not. People that marry can never part,
but must go and keep house together. People that dance,
only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an
hour."
" And such is your definition of matrimony and danc-
ing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is
not striking ; but I think I could place them in such
a view. — You will allow, that in both, man has the
advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal ;
that in both, it is an engagement between man and
woman, formed for the advantage of each ; and that when
once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other
till the moment of its dissolution ; that it is their duty,
each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing
that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and
their best interest to keep their own imaginations from
wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or
fancying that they should have been better off with any
one else. You will allow all this ? "
" Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very
well ; but still they are so very different. — I cannot look
upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same
duties belong to them."
" In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In
marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support
of the woman ; the woman to make the home agreeable
to the man ; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in
dancing, their duties are exactly changed ; the agreeable-
ness, the compliance are expected from him, while she
furnishes the fan and the lavender water. Thaty I suppose,
was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering
the conditions incapable of comparison."
" No, indeed, I never thought of that."
" Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however,
I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather
alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the
obligations ;
( 78 )
obligations ; and may I not thence infer, that your
notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict
as your partner might wish ? Have I not reason to fear,
that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to
return, or if any other gentleman were to address you,
there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing
with him as long as you chose ? "
" Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my
brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him
again ; but there are hardly three young men in the room
besides him, that I have any acquaintance with."
" And is that to be my only security ? alas, alas I "
" Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better ; for if I do
not know any body, it is impossible for me to talk to
them ; and, besides, I do not want to talk to any body."
" Now you have given me a security worth having ;
and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as
agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry
before ? "
" Yes, quite — more so, indeed."
" More so ! — Take care, or you will forget to be tired
of it at the proper time. — You ought to be tired at the
end of six weeks."
" I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here
six months."
" Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and
so every body finds out every year. ' For six weeks,
I allow Bath is pleasant enough ; but beyond that, it is
the most tiresome place in the world.' You would be
told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly
every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve,
and go away at last because they can afford to stay no
longer."
" Well, other people must judge for themselves, and
those who go to London may think nothing of Bath.
But I, who live in a small retired village in the country,
can never fin4 greater sameness in such a place as this,
than in my own home ,* for here are a variety of amuse-
ments.
P ( 79 )
ments, a variety of things to be seen and done all day
long, which I can know nothing of there."
" You are not fond of the country."
*' Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always
been very happy. But certainly there is much more
sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day
in the country is exactly like another."
" But then you spend your time so much more ration-
ally in the country."
*' Do I ? "
" Do you not ? "
" I do not believe there is much difference."
" Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day
long."
" And so I am at home — only I do not find so much
of it. I walk about here, and so I do there ; — but here
I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can
only go and call on Mrs. Allen."
Mr. Tilney was very much amused. " Only go and call
on Mrs. Allen ! " he repeated. " What a picture of in-
tellectual poverty ! However, when you sink into this
abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able
to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here."
" Oh ! yes. I shall never be in want of something to
talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or any body else. I really
believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at
home again — I do like it so very much. If I could but
have papa and mamma, and the rest of them here, I sup-
pose I should be too happy ! James's coming (my eldest
brother) is quite delightful — and especially as it turns
out, that the very family we are just got so intimate with,
are his intimate friends already. Oh ! who can ever be
tired of Bath ? "
" Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort
to it, as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers
and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of
the frequenters of Bath — and the honest reUsh of balls
and plays, and every-day sights, is past with them."
Here
( 80 )
Here their conversation closed ; the demands of the
dance becoming now too importunate for a divided
attention.
Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine
perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentle-
man who stood among the lookers-on, immediately
behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of
a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the
vigour of life ; and with his eye still directed towards
her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar
whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the
fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appear-
ance, she turned away her head. But while she did so,
the gentleman retreated, and her partner coming nearer,
said, " I see that you guess what I have just been asked.
That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right
to know his. It is General Tilney, my father."
Catherine's answer was only " Oh ! " — but it was an
" Oh ! '* expressing every thing needful ; attention to his
words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real
interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the
General, as he moved through the crowd, and " How
handsome a family they are ! " was her secret remark.
In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening con-
cluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She had
never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath.
Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly-frequented
environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which
made her all eagerness to know them too ; and on her
openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with
her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they
should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall
like it," she cried, " beyond any thing in the world ; and
do not let us put it off — ^let us go to-morrow." This was
readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney's,
that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure it would
not. At twelve o'clock, they were to call for her in
Pulteney-street — and " remember — ^twelve o'clock," was
her
■
( 81 )
her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her
older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose
fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight's experience,
she scarcely saw any thing during the evening. Yet,
though longing to make her acquainted with her happi-
ness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen,
which took them rather early away, and her spirits
danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the
way home.
^'^^'5 o CHAP-
( 82 )
CHAPTER XI.
The morrow brought a very sober looking morning ;
the sun making only a few efforts to appear; and Catherine
augured from it, every tiling most favourable to her
wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she
allowed would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one
foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied
to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen
not having his own skies and barometer about him,
declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She
applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was more
positive. " She had no doubt in the world of its being
a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the
sun keep out."
At about eleven o'clock however, a few specks of small
rain upon the windows caught Catherine's watchful eye,
and " Oh ! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from
her in a most desponding tone.
" I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen.
" No walk for me to-day," sighed Catherine ; — " but
perhaps it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before
twelve."
" Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so
dirty."
" Oh ! that will not signify ; I never mind dirt."
" No," replied her friend very placidly, " I know you
never mind dirt."
After a short pause, " It comes on faster and faster ! "
said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window.
" So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will
be very wet."
" There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the
sight of an imibrella ! "
" They
■
( 83 )
" They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much
rather take a chair at any time."
" It was such a nice looking morning ! I felt so con-
vinced it would be dry ! "
" Any body would have thought so indeed. There will
be very few people in the Pump-room, if it rains all the
morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his great coat
when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had
rather do any thing in the world than walk out in a great
coat ; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so com-
fortable."
The rain continued — fast, though not heavy. Catherine
went every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each
return that, if it still kept on raining another five minutes,
she would give up the matter as hopeless. The clock
struck twelve, and it still rained. — " You will not be able
to go, my dear."
" I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till
a quarter after twelve. This is just the time of day for
it to clear up, and I do think it looks a little lighter.
There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and now I shall
give it up entirely. Oh ! that we had such weather here
as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the
South of France ! — the night that poor St. Aubin died ! —
such beautiful weather ! "
At half past twelve, when Catherine's anxious attention
to the weather was over, and she could no longer claim
any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily
to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by surprize ;
she looked round ; the clouds were parting, and she
instantly returned to the window to watch over and
encourage the happy appearance. Ten minutes more
made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed,
and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had " always
thought it would clear up." But whether Catherine might
still expect her friends, whether there had not been too
much rain for Miss Tilney to venture, must yet be a
question.
G2 It
{ 84 )
It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her
husband to the Pump-room ; he accordingly set off by
himself, and Catherine had barely watched him down
the street, when her notice was claimed by the approach
of the same two open carriages, containing the same three
people that had surprized her so much a few mornings
back.
" Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare !
They are coming for me perhaps — but I shall not go —
I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still
call." Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon
with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for
on the stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be
quick. " Make haste ! make haste ! " as he threw open
the door — " put on your hat this moment — there is no
time to be lost — we are going to Bristol. — How d'ye do,
Mrs. Allen ? "
*' To Bristol ! Is not that a great way off ? — But, how-
ever, I cannot go with you to-day, because I am engaged ;
I expect some friends every moment." This was of
course vehemently talked down as no reason at all ;
Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two
others walked in, to give their assistance. " My sweetest
Catherine, is not this delightful ? We shall have a most
heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me
for the scheme ; it darted into our heads at breakfast-
time, I verily believe at the same instant ; and we should
have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this
detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are
moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh ! I am in
such extasies at the thoughts of a little country air and
quiet ! — so much better than going to the Lower Rooms.
We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there ; and,
as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to
Kingsweston."
" I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland.
" You croaking fellow ! " cried Thorpe, " we shall be
able to do ten times more. Kingsweston ! aye, and Blaize
Castle
( 85 )
Castle too, and any thing else we can hear of ; but here
is your sister says she will not go."
" Blaize Castle ! " cried Catherine ; " what is that ? "
" The finest place in England — worth going fifty miles
at any time to see."
" What, is it really a castle, an old castle ? '*
" The oldest in the kingdom."
" But is it like what one reads of ? "
" Exactly — the very same."
" But now really — are there towers and long gal-
leries ? "
" By dozens."
" Then I should like to see it ; but I cannot 1
cannot go."
" Not go ! — my beloved creature, what do you mean ? "
" I cannot go, because " (looking down as she
spoke, fearful of Isabella's smile) " I expect Miss Tilney
and her brother to call on me to take a country walk.
They promised to come at twelve, only it rained ; but
now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon."
" Not they indeed," cried Thorpe ; " for, as we turned
into Broad-street, I saw them — does he not drive a
phaeton with bright chesnuts ? "
" I do not know indeed."
" Yes, I know he does ; I saw him. You are talking
of the man you danced with last night, are not you ? "
" Yes."
" Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown
Road, — driving a smart-looking girl."
" Did you indeed ? "
" Did upon my soul ; knew him again directly, and he
seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too."
" It is very odd ! but I suppose they thought it would
be too dirty for a walk."
" And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in
my life. Walk ! you could no more walk than you could
fly ! it has not been so dirty the whole winter ; it is
ancle-deep every where."
Isabella
( 86 )
Isabella corroborated it : — " My dearest Catherine, you
cannot form an idea of the dirt ; come, you must go ;
you cannot refuse going now."
" I should like to see the castle ; but may we go all
over it ? may we go up every staircase, and into every
suite of rooms ? "
" Yes, yes, every hole and corner."
" But then, — if they should only be gone out for an
hour till it is drier, and call by and bye ? "
" Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for
I heard Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing
by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick
Rocks."
" Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen ? "
" Just as you please, my dear."
" Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the
general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it : —
" Well, my dear," said she, " suppose you go." — And in
two minutes they were off.
Catherine's feelings, as she got into the carriage, were
in a very unsettled state ; divided between regret for the
loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying
another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in
kind. She could not think the Tilneys had acted quite
well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,
without sending her any message of excuse. It was now
but an hour later than the time fixed on for the beginning
of their walk ; and, in spite of what she had heard of the
prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course of that
hour, she could not from her own observation help think-
ing, that they might have gone with very little incon-
venience. To feel herself slighted by them was very
painful. On the other hand, the delight of exploring an
edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize
Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good, as might
console her for almost any thing.
They passed briskly down Pulteney-street, and through
Laura-place, without the exchange of many words.
Thorpe
( 87 )
Thorpe talked to his horse, and she meditated, by turns,
on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered
Argyle-buildings, however, she was roused by this address
from her companion, " Who is that girl who looked at
you so hard as she went by ? "
" Who ?— where ? "
" On the right-hand pavement — she must be almost
out of sight now." Catherine looked round and saw Miss
Tilney leaning on her brother's arm, walking slowly down
the street. She saw them both looking back at her.
" Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe, she impatiently cried, it is
Miss Tilney ; it is indeed. — How could you tell me they
were gone ? — Stop, stop, I will get out this moment and
go to them." But to what purpose did she speak ? —
Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot ; the
Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in
a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura-place,
and in another moment she was herself whisked into the
Market-place. Still, however, and during the length of
another street, she intreated him to stop. " Pray, pray
stop, Mr. Thorpe. — I cannot go on. — I will not go on. —
I must go back to Miss Tilney." But Mr. Thorpe only
laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made
odd noises, and drove on ; and Catherine, angry and
vexed as she was, having no power of getting away, was
obliged to give up the point and submit. Her reproaches,
however, were not spared. " How could you deceive me
so, Mr. Thorpe ? — How could you say, that you saw
them driving up the Lansdown-road ? — I would not have
had it happen so for the world. — They must think it so
strange ; so rude of me ! to go by them, too, without
saying a word ! You do not know how vexed I am. —
I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in any thing else.
I had rather, ten thousand times rather get out now, and
walk back to them. How could you say, you saw them
driving out in a phaeton ? " Thorpe defended himself
very stoutly, declared he had never seen two . men so
much
( 88 )
much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the point
of its having been Tilney himself.
Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not
likely to be very agreeable. Catherine's complaisance
was no longer what it had been in their former airing.
She listened reluctantly, and her replies were short.
Blaize Castle remained her only comfort ; towards that,
she still looked at intervals with pleasure ; though rather
than be disappointed of the promised walk, and especially
rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would
willingly have given up all the happiness which its walls
could supply — the happiness of a progress through a long
suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent
furniture, though now for many years deserted — the
happiness of being stopped in their way along narrow,
winding vaults, by a low, grated door ; or even of having
their lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden
gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness. In the
meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any
mischance ; and were within view of the town of Keyn-
sham, when a halloo from Morland, who was behind
them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the
matter. The others then came close enough for con-
versation, and Morland said, *' We had better go back,
Thorpe ; it is too late to go on to-day ; your sister thinks
so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming
from Pulteney-street, very little more than seven miles ;
and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It
will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had
much better put it off till another day, and turn round.'*
"It is all one to me," repHed Thorpe rather angrily ;
and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way
back to Bath.
" If your brother had not got such a d beast to
drive," said he soon afterwards, " we might have done it
very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within
the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my
arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded
jade's
I
( 89 )
jade's pace. Morland is a foal for not keeping a horse and
gig of his own."
'' No, he is not," said Catherine warmly, " for I am
sure he could not afford it."
" And why cannot he afford it ? "
*' Because he has not money enough."
" And whose fault is that ? "
" Nobody's, that I know of." Thorpe then said some-
thing in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often
recourse, about its being a d thing to be miserly ;
and that if people who rolled in money could not afford
things, he did not know who could ; w^hich Catherine did
not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of
what was to have been the consolation for her first dis-
appointment, she was less and less disposed either to be
agreeable herself, or to find her companion so ; and they
returned to Pulteney-street without her speaking twenty
words.
As she entered the house, the footman told her, that
a gentleman and lady had called and inquired for her
a few minutes after her setting off ; that, when he told
them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had
asked whether any message had been left for her ; and
on his saying no, had felt for a card, but said she had
none about her, and went away. Pondering over these
heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly up stairs.
At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on
hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, " I am
glad your brother had so much sense ; I am glad you
are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme."
They all spent the evening together at Thorpe's.
Catherine was disturbed and out of spirits ; but Isabella
seemed to find a pool of commerce, in the fate of which
she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a very
good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn
at Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the
Lower Rooms, was spoken more than once. " How
I pity the poor creatures that are going there ! How
glad
( 90 )
glad I am that I am not amongst them ! I wonder
whether it will be a full ball or not ! They have not
begun dancing yet. I would not be there for all the world.
It is so delightful to have an evening now and then to
oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know
the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity every
body that is. But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to
be at it, do not you ? I am sure you 'do. Well, pray
do not let any body here be a restraint on you. I dare
say we could do very well without you ; but you men
think yourselves of such consequence."
Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being
wanting in tenderness towards herself and her sorrows ;
so very little did they appear to dwell on her mind, and
so very inadequate was the comfort she offered. " Do
not be so dull, my dearest creature," she whispered.
" You will quite break my heart. It was amazingly
shocking to be sure ; but the Tilneys were entirely to
blame. Why were not they more punctual ? It was
dirty, indeed, but what did that signify ? I am sure
John and I should not have minded it. I never mind
going through any thing, where a friend is concerned ;
that is my disposition, and John is just the same ; he has
amazing strong feelings. Good heavens ! what a delight-
ful hand you have got ! Kings, I vow ! I never was so
happy in my life ! I would fifty times rather you should
have them than myself."
And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless
couch, which is the true heroine's portion ; to a pillow
strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may
she think herself, if she get another good night's rest in
the course of the next three months.
CHAP-
( 91 )
CHAPTER XII.
" Mrs. Allen," said Catherine the next morning, " will
there be any harm in my caUing on Miss Tihiey to-day ?
I shall not be easy till I have explained every thing."
" Go by all means, my dear ; only put on a white
gown ; Miss Tilney always wears white."
Catherine cheerfully complied ; and being properly
equipped, was more impatient than ever to be at the
Pump-room, that she might inform herself of General
Tilney 's lodgings, for though she believed they were in
Milsom-street, she was not certain of the house, and
Mrs. Allen's wavering convictions only made it more
doubtful. To Milsom-street she was directed ; and
having made herself perfect in the number, hastened
away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her
visit, explain her conduct, and be forgiven ; tripping
lightly through the church-yard, and resolutely turning
away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see her
beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason
to believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house
without any impediment, looked at the number, knocked
at the door, and inquired for Miss Tilney. The man
believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not quite
certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name ?
She gave her card. In a few minutes the servant returned,
and with a look which did not quite confirm his words,
said he had been mistaken, for that Miss Tilney was
walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification,
left the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney
was at home, and too much offended to admit her ; and
as she retired down the street, could not withhold one
glance at the drawing-room windows, in expectation of
seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the
bottom of the street, however, she looked back again,
and
( 92 )
and then, not at a window, but issuing from the door, she
saw Miss Tilney herself. She was followed by a gentle-
man, whom Catherine believed to be her father, and they
turned up towards Edgar's-buildings. Catherine, in deep
mortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost
be angry herself at such angry incivility ; but she checked
the resentful sensation ,* she remembered her own ignor-
ance. She knew not how such an offence as her's might
be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what
a degree of unforgivingness it might with propriety lead,
nor to what rigours of rudeness in return it might justly
make her amenable.
Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of
not going with the others to the theatre that night ; but
it must be confessed that they were not of long con-
tinuance : for she soon recollected, in the first place, that
she was without any excuse for staying at home ; and,
in the second, that it was a play she wanted very much
to see. To the theatre accordingly they all went ; no
Tilneys appeared to plague or please her ; she feared that,
amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness
for plays was not to be ranked ; but perhaps it was
because they were habituated to the finer performances
of the London stage, which she knew, on Isabella's
authority, rendered every thing else of the kind " quite
horrid." She was not deceived in her own expectation of
pleasure ; the comedy so well suspended her care, that
no one, observing her during the first four acts, would
have supposed she had any wretchedness about her. On
the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of
Mr. Henry Tilney 'and his father, joining a party in the
opposite box, recalled her to anxiety and distress. The
stage could no longer excite genuine merriment — no
longer keep her whole attention. Every other look upon
an average was directed towards the opposite box ; and,
for the space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch
Henry Tilney, without being once able to catch his eye.
No longer could he be suspected of indifference for a play ;
his
( 93 )
his notice was never withdrawn from the stage during
two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look
towards her, and he bowed — but such a bow ! no smile,
no continued observance attended it ; his eyes were
immediately returned to their former direction. Catherine
was restlessly miserable ; she could almost have run round
to the box in which he sat, and forced bim to hear her
explanation. Feelings rather natural than heroic
possessed her ; instead of considering her own dignity
injured by this ready condemnation — instead of proudly
resolving, in conscious innocence, to shew her resentment
towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave
to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to
enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight, or
flirting with somebody else, she took to herself all the
shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and
was only eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.
The play concluded — the curtain fell — ^Henry Tilney
was no longer to be seen where he had hitherto sat, but
his father remained, and perhaps he might be now coming
round to their box. She was right ; in a few minutes he
appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning
rows, spoke with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and
her friend. — Not with such calmness was he answered by
the latter : " Oh ! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to
speak to j^ou, and make my apologies. You must have
thought me so rude ; but indeed it was not my own
fault, — was it, Mrs. Allen ? Did not they tell me that
Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton
together ? and then what could I do ? But I had ten
thousand times rather have been with you ; now had not
I, Mrs. Allen ? "
" My dear, you tumble my gown," was Mrs. Allen's
reply.
Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was
not thrown away ; it brought a more cordial, more
natural smile into his countenance, and he replied in
a tone which retained only a little affected reserve : —
"We
( 94 )
" We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing
us a pleasant walk after our passing you in Argyle-street :
you were so kind as to look back on purpose."
" But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk ;
I never thought of such a thing ; but I begged Mr. Thorpe
so earnestly to stop ; I called out to him as soon as ever
I saw you ; now, Mrs. Allen, did not Oh ! you were
not there ; but indeed I did ; and, if Mr. Thorpe would
only have stopped, I would have jumped out and run
after you."
Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible
to such a declaration ? Henry Tilney at least was not.
With a yet sweeter smile, he said every thing that need
be said of his sister's concern, regret, and dependence on
Catherine's honour. — " Oh ! do not say Miss Tilney was
not angry," cried Catherine, " because I know she was ;
for she would not see me this morning when I called ;
I saw her walk out of the house the next minute after
my leaving it ; I was hurt, but I was not affronted.
Perhaps you did not know I had been there."
" I was not within at the time ; but I heard of it from
Eleanor, and she has been wishing ever since to see you,
to explain the reason of such incivility ; but perhaps
I can do it as well. It was nothing more than that my
father ^they were just preparing to walk out, and he
being hurried for time, and not caring to have it put off,
made a point of her being denied. That was all, I do
assure you. She was very much vexed, and meant to
make her apology as soon as possible."
Catherine's mind was greatly eased by this information,
yet a something of solicitude remained, from which sprang
the following question, thoroughly artless in itself, though
rather distressing to the gentleman : — " But, Mr. Tilney,
why were you less generous than your sister ? If she felt
such confidence in my good intentions, and could suppose
it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to
take offence ? "
" Me !— I take offence ! "
"Nay,
( 95 )
" Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into
the box, you were angry."
" I angry ! I could have no right."
"Well, nobody would have thought you had no right
who saw your face." He replied by asking her to make
room for him, and talking of the play.
He remained with them some time, and was only too
agreeable for Catherine to be contented when he went
away. Before they parted, however, it was agreed that
the projected walk should be taken as soon as possible ;
and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,
she was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures
in the world.
While talking to each other, she had observed with
some surprize, that John Thorpe, who was never in the
same part of the house for ten minutes together, was
engaged in conversation with General Tilney ; and she
felt something more than surprize, when she thought she
could perceive herself the object of their attention and
discourse. What could they have to say of her ? She
feared General Tilney did not like her appearance : she
found it was implied in his preventing her admittance to
his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few
minutes. " How came Mr. Thorpe to know your father ? "
was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her
companion. He knew nothing about it ; but his father,
like every military man, had a very large acquaintance.
When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to
assist them in getting out. Catherine was the immediate
object of his gallantry ; and, while they waited in the
lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had
travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue,
by asking, in a consequential manner, whether she had
seen him talking with General Tilney : — " He is a fine
old fellow, upon my soul ! — stout, active, — looks as young
as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you :
a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived."
" But how came you to know him ? "
"Know
( 96 )
" Know him ! — ^There are few people much about town
that I do not know. I have met him for ever at the
Bedford ; and I knew his face again to-day the moment
he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players
we have, by the bye ; and we had a little touch together,
though I was almost afraid of him at first : the odds were
five to four against me ; and, if I had not made one of
the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in this
world 1 took his ball exactly but I could not
make you understand it without a table ; — however I did
beat him. A very fine fellow ; as rich as a Jew. I should
like to dine with him ; I dare say he gives famous dinners.
But what do you think we hav» been talking of ? — You.
Yes, by heavens ! — and the General thinks you the finest
girl in Bath."
" Oh ! nonsense ! how can you say so ? "
" And what do you think I said ? " (lowering his voice)
" Well done. General, said I, I am quite of your mind."
Here, Catherine, who was much less gratified by his
admiration than by General Tilney's, was not sorry to be
called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe, however, would see
her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued the
same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating
him to have done.
That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire
her, was very delightful ; and she joyfully thought, that
there was not one of the family whom she need now fear
to meet. — ^The evening had done more, much more, for
her, than could have been expected.
CHAP-
( 97 )
CHAPTER XIII.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and
Saturday have now passed in review before the reader ;
the events of each day, its hopes and fears, mortifications
and pleasures have been separately stated, and the pangs
of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close
the week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not
relinquished, and on the afternoon's Crescent of this day,
it was brought forward again. In a private consultation
between Isabella and James, the former of whom had
particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no
less anxiously placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed
that, provided the weather were fair, the party should
take place on the following morning ; and they were to
set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.
The affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation
secured, Catherine only remained to be apprized of it.
She had left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss
Tilney. In that interval the plan was completed, and as
soon as she came again, her agreement was demanded ;
but instead of the gay acquiescence expected by Isabella,
Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go.
The engagement which ought to have kept her from
joining in the former attempt, would make it impossible
for her to accompany them now. She had that moment
settled with Miss Tilney to take their prom.ised walk
to-morrow ; it was quite determined, and she would not,
upon any account, retract. But that she must and should
retract, was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes ;
they must go to Clifton to-morrow, they would not go
without her, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk
for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.
Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. " Do not
urge me, Isabella. I am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot
H go."
1781.5
( 98 )
go." This availed nothing. The same arguments assailed
her again ; she must go, she should go, and they Avould
not hear of a refusal. " It would be so easy to tell Miss
Tilney that you had just been reminded of a prior engage-
ment, and must only beg to put off the walk till Tuesday."
" No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There
has been no prior engagement." But Isabella became
only more and more urgent ; calling on her in the most
affectionate manner ; addressing her by the most endear-
ing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine
would not seriously refuse such a trifling request to
a friend who loved her so dearly. She knew her beloved
Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so sweet a temper,
to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all in
vain ; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though
pained by such tender, such flattering supplication, could
not allow it to influence her. Isabella then tried another
method. She reproached her with having more affection
for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so little
a while, than for her best and oldest friends ; with being
grown cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself.
, " I cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see
myself slighted for strangers, I, who love you so ex-
cessively 1 When once my affections are placed, it is not
in the power of any thing to change them. But I believe
my feelings are stronger than any body's ; I am sure
they are too strong for my own peace ; and to see myself
supplanted in your friendship by strangers, does cut me
to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up
every thing else."
Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and
unkind. Was it the part of a friend thus to expose her
feelings to the notice of others ? Isabella appeared to
her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of every thing but
her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her
mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile,
had applied her handkerchief to her eyes ; and Morland,
miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, " Nay,
Catherine.
( 99 )
Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any longer
now. The sacrifice is not much ; and to oblige such
a friend — I shall think you quite unkind, if you still
refuse."
This was the first time of her brother's openly siding
against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she
proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their
scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it
depended only on themselves, she could go with them,
and every body might then be satisfied. But " No, no,
no ! " was the immediate answer ; " that could not be,
for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town
on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no
more ; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by
Isabella ; who in a voice of cold resentment said, " Very
well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does
not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would
not, upon any account in the world, do so improper
a thing."
" Catherine, you must go," said James.
" But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other
sisters ? I dare say either of them would like to go."
" Thank ye," cried Thorpe, " but I did not come to
Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No,
if you do not go, d me if I do. I only go for the sake
of driving you."
" That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure."
But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned
abruptly away.
The three others still continued together, walking in
a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine ; some
times not a word was said, sometimes she was again
attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm
was still Hnked within Isabella's, though their hearts were
at war. At one moment she was softened, at another
irritated ; always distressed, but always steady.
" I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,"
said James ; " you were not used to be so hard to per-
H 2 suade ;
( 100 )
suade ; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my
sisters."
" I hope I am not less so now," she replied, very feel-
ingly ; " but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am
doing what I believe to be right."
" I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, " there is no
great struggle."
Catherine's heart swelled ; she drew away her arm,
and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long
ten minutes, till they w^ere again joined by Thorpe, who
coming to them with a gayer look, said, " Well, I have
settled the matter, and now we may all go to-morrow
with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and
made your excuses."
" You have not ! " cried Catherine.
" I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told
her you had sent me to say, that having just recollected
a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us to-morrow,
you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till
Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as con-
venient to her ; so there is an end of all our difficulties. —
A pretty good thought of mine — hey ? "
Isabella's countenance was once more all smiles and
good- humour, and James too looked happy again.
" A most heavenly thought indeed ! Now, my sweet
Catherine, all our distresses are over ; you are honourably
acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party."
" This will not do," said Catherine ; "I cannot submit
to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set
her right."
Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand ; Thorpe
of the other ; and remonstrances poured in from all three.
Even James was quite angry. When every thing was
settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would
suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd to
make any further objection.
" I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent
any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off,
I could
( 101 )
I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only
doing it in a ruder way ; and how do I know that Mr.
Thorpe has he may be mistaken again perhaps ; he
led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday.
Let me go, Mr. Thorpe ; Isabella, do not hold me."
Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the
Tilney s ; they were turning the corner into Brock- street,
when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this
time.
" Then I will go after them," said Catherine ; " wher-
ever they are I will go after them. It does not signify
talking. If I could not be persuaded into doing what
I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it." And
with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe
would have darted after her, but Morland withheld him.
" Let her go, let her go, if she will go."
" She is as obstinate as "
Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly
have been a proper one.
Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as
the crowd would permit her, fearful of being pursued,
yet determined to persevere. As she walked, she reflected
on what had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint
and displease them, particularly to displease her brother ;
but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own
inclination apart, to have failed a second time in her
engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise
voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a false
pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been
withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had
not consulted merely her own gratification ; that might
have been ensured in some degree by the excursion itself,
by seeing Blaize Castle ; no, she had attended to what
was due to others, and to her own character in their
opinion. Her conviction of being right however was not
enough to restore her composure, till she had spoken to
Miss Tilney she could not be at ease ; and quickening
her pace when she got clear of the Crescent, she almost
ran
( 102 )
ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of
Milsom- street. So rapid had been her movements, that
in spite of the Tilneys' advantage in the outset, they were
but just turning into their lodgings as she came within
view of them ; and the servant still remaining at the open
door, she used only the ceremony of saying that she must
speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by
him proceeded up stairs. Then, opening the first door
before her, which happened to be the right, she immedi-
ately found herself in the drawing-room with General
Tilney, his son and daughter. Her explanation, defective
only in being — ^from her irritation of nerves and shortness
of breath — no explanation at all, was instantly given.
*' I am come in a great hurry — It was all a mistake —
I never promised to go — I told them from the first I could
not go. — I ran away in a great hurry to explain it. — I did
not care what you thought of me. — I would not stay for
the servant."
The business however, though not perfectly elucidated
by this speech, soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine
found that John Thorpe liad given the message ; and
Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly
surprized by it. But whether her brother had still
exceeded her in resentment, Catherine, though she in-
stinctively addressed herself as much to one as to the
other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.
Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her
eager declarations immediately made every look and
sentence as friendly as she could desire.
The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by
Miss Tilney to her father, and received by him with such
ready, such solicitous politeness as recalled Thorpe's
information to her mind, and made her think with
pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To
such anxious attention was the general's civility carried,
that not aware of her extraordinary swiftness in entering
the house, he was quite angry with the servant whose
neglect had reduced her to open the door of the apart-
ment
( 103 )
ment herself. " What did William mean by it ? He
should make a point of inquiring into the matter." And
if Catherine had not most warmly asserted his innocence,
it seemed likely that W^illiam would lose the favour of his
master for ever, if not his place, by her rapidity.
After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose
to take leave, and was then most agreeably surprized by
General Tilney's asking her if she would do his daughter
the honour of dining and spending the rest of the day
with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine
was greatly obliged ; but it was quite out of her power.
Mr. and Mrs. Allen would expect her back every moment.
The general declared he could say no more ; the claims
of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded ; but on
some other day he trusted, when longer notice could be
given, they would not refuse to spare her to her friend.
" Oh, no ; Catherine was sure they would not have the
least objection, and she should have great pleasure in
coming." The general attended her himself to the street-
door, saying every thing gallant as they went down stairs,
admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded
exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and making her
one of the most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when
they parted.
Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded
gaily to Pulteney-street ; walking, as she concluded, with
great elasticity, though she had never thought of it before.
She reached home without seeing any thing more of the
offended party ; and now that she had been triumphant
throughout, had carried her point and was secure of her
walk, she began (as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to
doubt whether she had been perfectly right. A sacrifice
was always noble ; and if she had given way to their
entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing
idea of a friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme
of great happiness to both destroyed, perhaps through
her means. To ease her mind, and ascertain by the
opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct
had
( 104 )
had really been, she took occasion to mention before Mr.
Allen the half-settled scheme of her brother and the
Thorpes for the following day. Mr. Allen caught at it
directly. " Well," said he, " and do you think of going
too ? "
" No ; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss
Tilney before they told me of it ; and therefore you know
I could not go with them, could I ? "
" No, certainly not ; and I am glad you do not think
of it. These schemes are not at all the thing. Young
men and women driving about the country in open
carriages ! Now and then it is very well ; but going to
inns and public places together ! It is not right ; and
I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should allow it. I am glad you do
not think of going ; I am sure Mrs. Morland would not
be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of think-
ing ? Do not you think these kind of projects objection-
able ? '»
" Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty
things. A clean gown is not five minutes wear in them.
You are splashed getting in and getting out ; and the
wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every direction.
I hate an open carriage myself."
" I know you do ; but that is not the question. Do
not you think it has an odd appearance, if young ladies
are frequently driven about in them by young men, to
whom they are not even related ? "
" Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot
bear to see it."
" Dear madam," cried Catherine, " then why did not
you tell me so before ? I am sure if I had known it to
be improper, I would not have gone with Mr. Thorpe at
all ; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought
I was doing wrong."
" And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it ;
for as I told Mrs. Morland at parting, I would always do
the best for you in my power. But one must not be over
particular. Young people will be young people, as your
good
{ 105 )
good mother says herself. You know I wanted you,
when we first came, not to buy that sprigged musHn, but
you would. Young people do not like to be always
thwarted."
" But this was something of real consequence ; and
I do not think you would have found me hard to per-
suade."
" As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,"
said Mr. Allen ; " and I would only advise you, my dear,
not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any more."
" That is just what I was going to say," added his
wife.
Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella ;
and after a moment's thought, asked Mr. Allen whether
it would not be both proper and kind in her to write to
Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of which she
must be as insensible as herself ; for she considered that
Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the
next day, in spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen however
discouraged her from doing any such thing. " You had
better leave her alone, my dear, she is old enough to
know what she is about ; and if not, has a mother to
advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt ;
but however you had better not interfere. She and your
brother chuse to go, and you will be only getting ill-will."
Catherine submitted ; and though sorry to think that
Isabella should be doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by
Mr. Allen's approbation of her own conduct, and truly
rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the danger of
falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being
one of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed ;
for what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she
had broken her promise to them in order to do what was
wrong in itself ? if she had been guilty of one breach of
propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another ?
CHAP-
( 106 )
CHAPTER XIV.
The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost
expected another attack from the assembled party. With
Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event :
but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory
itself was painful ; and was heartily rejoiced therefore at
neither seeing nor hearing any thing of them. The
Tilneys called for her at the appointed time ; and no new
difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected
summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their
measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil
her engagement, though it was made with the hero him-
self. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff,
that noble hill, whose beautiful verdure and hanging
coppice render it so striking an object from almost every
opening in Bath.
" I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked
along the side of the river, " without thinking of the south
of France."
" You have been abroad then ? " said Henry, a little
surprized.
" Oh ! no, I only mean what I have read about. It
always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and
her father travelled through, in the * Mysteries of
Udolpho.' But you never read novels, I dare say ? "
" Why not ? "
" Because they are not clever enough for you — gentle-
men read better books."
" The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not
pleasure in a good novel, rnust be intolerably stupid.
I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them
with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when
I had once begun it, I could not lay down again ; — I re-
member finishing it in two days — my hair standing on
end the whole time."
"Yes,"
( 107 )
" Yes," added Miss Tilney, " and I remember that you
undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was
called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead
of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage-
walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it."
*' Thank you, Eleanor ; — a most honourable testimony.
You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions.
Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait
only five minutes for my sister ; breaking the promise
I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense
at a most interesting part, by running away with the
volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, par-
ticularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and
I think it must establish me in your good opinion."
" I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall
never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really
thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."
"It is amazingly ; it may well suggest amazement if
they do — for they read nearly as many as women. I
myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not
imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of
Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and
engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of ' Have you read
this ? ' and * Have you read that ? ' I shall soon leave
you as far behind me as — what shall I say ? — I want an
appropriate simile ; — as far as your friend Emily herself
left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into
Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of
you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you
were a good little girl working your sampler at home ! "
" Not very good I am afraid. But now really, do not
you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world ? "
" The nicest ; — by which I suppose you mean the
neatest. That must depend upon the binding."
" Henry," said Miss Tilney, " you are very impertinent.
Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his
sister. He is for ever finding fault with me, for some
incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same
liberty
{ 108 )
liberty with you. The word ' nicest,' as you used it, did
not suit him ; and you had better change it as soon as
you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and
Blair all the rest of the way." .
*' I am sure," cried Catherine, " I did not mean to say
any thing wrong ; but it is a nice book, and why should
not I call it so ? "
" Very true," said Henry, " and this is a very nice day,
and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very
nice young ladies. Oh ! it is a very nice word indeed ! —
it does for every thing. Originally perhaps it was applied
only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refine-
ment ; — people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments,
or their choice. But now ever}'^ commendation on every
subject is comprised in that one word."
" While, in fact," cried his sister, " it ought only to be
applied to you, without any commendation at all. You
are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us
leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost
propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever
terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You
are fond of that kind of reading ? "
" To say the truth, I do not much like any other."
" Indeed ! "
" That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of
that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real
solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you ? "
" Yes, I am fond of history."
" I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it
tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me.
The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences,
in every page ; the men all so good for nothing, and
hardly any women at all — it is very tiresome : and yet
I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great
deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put
into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts and designs — the
chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what
delights me in other books."
" Historians,
( 109 )
" Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, " are not
happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagina-
tion without raising interest. I am fond of history — and
am very well contented to take the false with the true.
In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in
former histories and records, which may be as much
depended on, I conclude, as any thing that does not
actually pass under one's own observation; and as for
the little embellishments you speak of, they are embellish-
ments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn
up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be
made — and probably with much greater, if the production
of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words
of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great."
" You are fond of history ! — and so are Mr. Allen and
my father ; and I have two brothers who do not dislike
it. So many instances within my small circle of friends
is remarkable ! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers
of history any longer. If people like to read their books,
it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling
great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would
willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the
torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as
a hard fate ; and though I know it is all very right and
necessary, I have often wondered at the person's courage
that could sit down on purpose to do it."
" That little boys and girls should be tormented," said
Henry, " is what no one at all acquainted with human
nature in a civilized state can deny ; but in behalf of our
most distinguished historians, I must observe, that they
might well be offended at being supposed to have no
higher aim ; and that by their method and style, they are
perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most
advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb
* to torment,' as I observed to be your own method,
instead of ' to instruct,' supposing them to be now
admitted as synonimous."
" You think me foolish to call instruction a torment,
but
( 110 )
but if you had been as much used as myself to hear poor
httle children first learning their letters and then learning
to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they can be
for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor
mother is at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing
almost every day of my life at home, you would allow
that to torment and to instruct might sometimes be used
as synonimous words."
" Very probably. But historians are not accountable
for the difficulty of learning to read ; and even you your-
self, who do not altogether seem particularly friendly to
very severe, very intense application, may perhaps be
brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth while
to be tormented for two or three years of one's life, for
the sake of being able to read all the rest of it. Consider —
if reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have
written in vain — or perhaps might not have written
at all."
Catherine assented — ^and a very warm panegyric from
her on that lady's merits, closed the subject. — The Tilneys
were soon engaged in another on which she had nothing
to say. They were viewing the country with the eyes of
persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its
capability of being formed into pictures, with all the
eagerness of real taste. Here Catherine was quite lost.
She knew nothing of drawing — nothing of taste : — and
she listened to them with an attention which brought her
little profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed
scarcely any idea to her. The little which she could
understand however appeared to contradict the very few
notions she had entertained on the matter before. It
seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken
from the top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky
was no longer a proof of a fine day. She was heartily
ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where
people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant.
To come with a well-informed mind, is to come with an
inability of administering to the vanity of others, which
a sensible
( 111 )
a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman
especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing any
thing, should conceal it as well as she can.
The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have
been already set forth by the capital pen of a sister
author ; — and to her treatment of the subject I will only
add in justice to men, that though to the larger and more
trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a great
enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion
of them too reasonable and too well informed themselves
to desire any thing more in woman than ignorance. But
Catherine did not know her own advantages — did not
know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate heart
and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever
young man, unless circumstances are particularly un-
toward. In the present instance, she confessed and
lamented her want of knowledge ; declared that she
would give any thing in the world to be able to draw ;
and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed,
in which his instructions were so clear that she soon
began to see beauty in every thing admired by him, and
her attention was so earnest, that he became perfectly
satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste. He
talked of fore-grounds, distances, and second distances —
side-screens and perspectives- — lights and shades ; — and
Catherine was so hopeful a scholar, that when they gained
the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the whole
city of Bath, as unworthy to make part of a landscape.
Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her
with too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject
to decline, and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky,
fragment and the withered oak which he had placed near
its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the inclosure of
them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he
shortly found himself arrived at politics ; and from
politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause
which succeeded his short disquisition on the state of the
nation, was put an end to by Catherine, who, in rather
a solemn
( 112 )
a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, " I have
heard that something very shocking indeed, will soon
come out in London."
Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was
startled, and hastily replied, " Indeed ! — and of what
nature ? '*
" That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have
only heard that it is to be more horrible than any thing
we have met with yet."
" Good heaven ! — Where could you hear of such a
thing ? "
" A particular friend of mine had an account of it in
a letter from London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly
dreadful. I shall expect murder and every thing of the
kind."
" You speak with astonishing composure ! But I hope
your friend's accounts have been exaggerated ; — and if
such a design is known beforehand, proper measures will
undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its
coming to effect."
" Gk)vernment," said Henry, endeavouring not to smile,
*' neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters.
There must be murder ; and government cares not how
much."
The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, " Come,
shall I make you understand each other, or leave you to
puzzle out an explanation as you can ? No — I will be
noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the generosity
of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no
patience with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves
sometimes down to the comprehension of yours. Perhaps
the abilities of women are neither sound nor acute —
neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want
observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and
wit."
" Miss Morland, do not mind what he says ; — but have
the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot."
" Riot !— what riot ? "
"My
( 113 )
*' My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain.
The confusion there is scandalous. Miss Morland has
been talking of nothing more dreadful than a new publica-
tion which is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo
volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each,
with a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and
a lantern — do you understand ? — And you, Miss Morland
— my stupid sister has mistaken all your clearest expres-
sions. You talked of expected horrors in London — and
instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature
would have done, that such words could relate only to
a circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself
a mob of three thousand men assemblmg in St. George's
Fields ; the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the
streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the
12th Light Dragoons, (the hopes of the nation,) called up
from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the
gallant Capt. Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging
at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a brickbat
from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears
of the sister have added to the weakness of the woman ;
but she is by no means a simpleton in general."
Catherine looked grave. " And now, Henry," said
Miss Tilney, " that you have made us understand each
other, you may as well make Miss Morland understand
yourself — unless you mean to have her think you in-
tolerably rude to your sister, and a great brute in your
opinion of women in general. Miss Morland is not used
to your odd ways."
" I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted
with them."
" No doubt ; — but that is no explanation of the
present."
" What am I to do ? "
" You know what you ought to do. Clear your character
handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very
highly of the understanding of women."
" Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understand-
1781.5 J ij,g
( 114 )
ing of all the women in the world — especially of those —
whoever they may be — with whom I happen to be in
company."
" That is not enough. Be more serious."
" Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the
understanding of women than I do. In my opinion,
nature has given them so much, that they never find it
necessary to use more than half."
" We shall get nothing more serious from him now,
Miss Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do
assure you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he
can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at
all, or an unkind one of me."
It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry
Tilney could never be wrong. His manner might some-
times surprize, but his meaning must always be just : —
and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready
to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful,
and though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful
too ; — her friends attended her into the house, and Miss
Tilney, before they parted, addressing herself with respect-
ful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine, petitioned
for the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day
after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's
side — and the only difficulty on Catherine's was in con-
cealing the excess of her pleasure.
The morning had passed away so charmingly as to
banish all her friendship and natural affection ; for no
thought of Isabella or James had crossed her during
their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she became
amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to
little effect ; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that
could relieve her anxiety, she had heard nothing of any
of them. Towards the end of the morning however,
Catherine having occasion for some indispensable yard of
ribbon which must be bought without a moment's delay,
walked out into the town, and in Bond-street overtook
tlie second Miss Thorpe, as she was loitering towards
Edgar's
( 115 )
Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the
world, who had been her dear friends all the morning.
From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had
taken place. " They set off at eight this morning," said
Miss Anne, " and I am sure I do not envy them their
drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of
the scrape. — It must be the dullest thing in the world,
for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year.
Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria."
Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing
this part of the arrangement.
" Oh ! yes," rejoined the other, " Maria is gone. She
was quite wild to go. She thought it would be something
very fine. I cannot say I admire her taste ; and for my
part I was determined from the first not to go, if they
pressed me ever so much."
Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help
answering, " I wish you could have gone too. It is a pity
you could not all go."
" Thank you ; but it is quite a matter of indifference
to me. Indeed, I would not have gone on any account.
I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you over
took us."
Catherine was still unconvinced ; but glad that Anne
should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to
console her, she bade her adieu without much uneasiness,
and returned home, pleased that the party had not been
prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily
wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either James
or Isabella to resent her resistance any longer.
1 2 ^ CHAP-
( 116 )
CHAPTER XV. ^
Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking
peace and tenderness in every line, and entreating the
immediate presence of her friend on a matter of the
utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest
state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar's Buildings. —
The two youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in
the parlour ; and, on Anne's quitting it to call her sister,
Catherine took the opportunity of asking the other for
some particulars of their yesterday's party. Maria desired
no greater pleasure than to speak of it ; and Catherine
immediately learnt that it had been altogether the most
delightful scheme in the world ; that nobody could
imagine how charming it had been, and that it had been
more delightful than any body could conceive. Such was
the information of the first five minutes ; the second
unfolded thus much in detail, — ^that they had driven
directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke
an early dinner, walked down to the Pump-room, tasted
the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars ;
thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook's, and hurry-
ing back to the Hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to
prevent being in the dark ; and then had a delightful
drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained
a little, and Mr. Morland's horse was so tired he could
hardly get it along.
Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It
appeared that Blaize Castle had never been thought
of ; and, as for all the rest, there was nothing to regret
for half an instant. — Maria's intelligence concluded with
a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she
represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded
the party.
" She will never forgive me, I am sure ; but, you know,
how
( in )
how could I help it ? John would have me go, for he
vowed he would not drive her, because she had such
thick ancles. I dare say she will not be in good humour
again this month ; but I am determined I will not be
cross ; it is not a little matter that puts me out of temper."
Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step,
and a look of such happy importance, as engaged all her
friend's notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away,
and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began :■ — '* Yes,
my dear Catherine, it is so indeed ; your penetration has
not deceived you. — Oh ! that arch eye of yours ! — It sees
through every thing."
Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.
" Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend," continued the
other, " compose yourself. — I am amazingly agitated, as
you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well,
and so you guessed it the moment you had my note ? —
Sly creature ! — Oh I my dear Catherine, you alone who
know my heart can judge of my present happiness. Your
brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were
more worthy of him. — But what will your excellent father
and mother say ? — Oh ! heavens ! when I think of them
I am so agitated ! "
Catherine's understanding began to awake : an idea
of the truth suddenly darted into her mind ; and, with
the natural blush of so new an emotion, she cried out,
" Good heaven ! — my dear Isabella, what do you mean ?
Can you — can you really be in love with James ? "
This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt compre-
hended but half the fact. The anxious affection, which
she was accused of having continually watched in Isabella's
every look and action, had, in the course of their yester-
day's party, received the delightful confession of an equal
love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James. —
Never had Catherine listened to any thing so full of
interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother and her friend
engaged ! — New to such circumstances, the importance of
it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it
as
( 118 )
as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course
of Hfe can hardly afford a return. The strength of her
feehngs she could not express ; the nature of them,
however, contented her friend. The happiness of having
such a sister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies
mingled in embraces and tears of joy.
Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the
prospect of the connexion, it must be acknowledged that
Isabella far surpassed her in tender anticipations. — " You
will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine, than
either Anne or Maria : I feel that I shall be so much more
attached to my dear Morland's family than to my own."
This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.
" You are so like your dear brother," continued Isabella,
" that I quite doated on you the first moment I saw you.
But so it always is with me ; the first moment settles
every thing. The very first day that Morland came to us
last Christmas — ^the very first moment I beheld him — my
heart was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my
yellow gown, with my hair done up in braids ; and when
I came into the drawing-room, and John introduced him,
I thought I never saw any body so handsome before."
Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of
love ; for, though exceedingly fond of her brother, and
partial to all his endowments, she had never in her life
thought him handsome.
" I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that
evening, and wore her puce-coloured sarsenet ; and she
looked so heavenly, that I thought your brother must
certainly fall in love with her ; I could not sleep a wink
all night for thinking of it. Oh ! Catherine, the many
sleepless nights I have had on your brother's account ! —
I would not have you suffer half what I have done !
I am grown wretchedly thin I know ; but I will not pain
you by describing my anxiety ; you have seen enough of
it. I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually ; — so
unguarded in speaking of my partiality for the church ! —
But my secret I was always sure would be safe with z/om."
Catherine
( 119 )
Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer ; but
ashamed of an ignorance little expected, she dared no
longer contest the point, nor refuse to have been as full
of arch penetration and affectionate sympathy as Isabella
chose to consider her. Her brother she found was pre-
paring to set off with all speed to FuUerton, to make
known his situation and ask consent ; and here was
a source of some real agitation to the mind of Isabella.
Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she was herself
persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose
their son's wishes. — " It is impossible," said she, " for
parents to be more kind, or more desirous of their children's
happiness ; I have no doubt of their consenting immedi-
ately."
" Morland says exactly the same," replied Isabella ;
" and yet I dare not expect it ; my fortune will be so
small ; they never can consent to it. Your brother, who
might marry any body I "
Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.
" Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. — The difference
of fortune can be nothing to signify."
" Oh ! my sweet Catherine, in your generous heart
I know it would signify nothing ; but we must not expect
such disinterestedness in many. As for myself, I am sure
I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the
command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world,
your brother would be my only choice."
This charming sentiment, recommended as much by
sense as novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasing remem-
brance of all the heroines of her acquaintance ; and she
thought her friend never looked more lovely than in
uttering the grand idea. — " I am sure they will consent,"
was her frequent declaration ; "I am sure they will be
delighted with you."
" For my own part," said Isabella, " my wishes are so
moderate, that the smallest income in nature would be
enough for me. Where people are really attached,
poverty itself is wealth : grandeur I detest : I would
not
( 120 )
not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some
retired village would be extasy. There are some charming
little villas about Richmond."
" Richmond ! " cried Catherine. — " You must settle
near Fullerton. You must be near us."
" I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can
but be near you, I shall be satisfied; But this is idle
talking ! I will not allow myself to think of such things,
till we have your father's answer. Morland says that by
sending it to-night to Salisbury, we may have it to-
morrow.— To-morrow ? — I know I shall never have
courage to open the letter. I know it will be the death
of me."
A reverie succeeded this conviction — and when Isabella
spoke again, it was to resolve on the quality of her
wedding-gown.
Their conference was put an end to by the anxious
young lover himself, who came to breathe his parting
sigh before he set off for Wiltshire. Catherine wished to
congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
eloquence was only in her eyes. From them however the
eight parts of speech shone out most expressively, and
James could combine them with ease. Impatient for the
realization of all that he hoped at home, his adieus were
not long ; and they would have been yet shorter, had he
not been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties
of his fair one that he would go. Twice was he called
almost from the door by her eagerness to have him gone.
*' Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider
how far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger
so. For Heaven's sake, waste no more time. There, go,
go — I insist on it."
The two friends, with hearts now more united than
ever, were inseparable for the day ; and in schemes of
sisterly happiness the hours flew along. Mrs. Thorpe and
her son, who were acquainted with every thing, and who
seemed only to want Mr. Morland 's consent, to consider
Isabella's engagement as the most fortunate circumstance
imamnable
( 121 )
imaginable for their family, were allowed to join their
counsels, and add their quota of significant looks and
mysterious expressions to fill up the measure of curiosity
to be raised in the unprivileged younger sisters. To
Catherine's simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve seemed
neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported ; and
its unkindness she would hardly have forborn pointing
out, had its inconsistency been less their friend ; — but
Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the sagacity
of their " I know what ; " and the evening was spent in
a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity ; on
one side in the mystery of an affected secret, on the other
of undefined discovery, all equally acute.
Catherine was with her friend again the next day,
endeavouring to support her spirits, and while away the
many tedious hours before the delivery of the letters ;
a needful exertion, for as the time of reasonable expecta-
tion drew near, Isabella became more and more despond-
ing, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into
a state of real distress. But when it did come, where
could distress be found ? "I have had no difficulty in
gaining the consent of my kind parents, and am promised
that every thing in their power shall be done to forward
my happiness," were the first three lines, and in one
moment all was joyful security. The brightest glow was
instantly spread over Isabella's features, all care and
anxiety seemed removed, her spirits became almost
too high for controul, and she called herself without
scruple the happiest of mortals.
Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter,
her son, her visitor, and could have embraced half the
inhabitants of Bath with satisfaction. Her heart was
overflowing with tenderness. It was " dear John," and
" dear Catherine " at every word ; — " dear Anne and
dear Maria " must immediately be made sharers in their
felicity ; and two " dears " at once before the name of
Isabella were not more than that beloved child had now
well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He
not
( 122 )
not only bestowed on Mr. Morland the high commenda-
tion of being one of the finest fellows in the world, but
swore off many sentences in his praise.
The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short,
containing little more than this assurance of success ;
and every particular was deferred till James could write
again. But for particulars Isabella could well afford to
wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland 's
promise ; his honour was pledged to make every thing
easy ; and by what means their income was to be formed,
whether landed property were to be resigned, or funded
money made over, was a matter in which her disin-
terested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel
secure of an honourable and speedy establishment, and
her imagination took a rapid flight over its attendant
felicities. She saw herself at the end of a few weeks,
the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at
FuUerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney,
with a carriage at her command, a new name on her
tickets, and a brilliant exhibition of hoop rings on her
finger.
When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John
Thorpe, who had only waited its arrival to begin his
journey to London, prepared to set off. " Well, Miss
Morland," said he, on finding her alone in the parlour,
" I am come to bid you good bye." Catherine wished
him a good journey. Without appearing to hear her, he
walked to the window, fidgetted about, hummed a tune,
and seemed wholly self-occupied.
" Shall not you be late at Devizes ? " said Catherine.
He made no answer ; but after a minute's silence burst
out with, " A famous good thing this marrying scheme,
upon my soul ! A clever fancy of Morland 's and Belle's.
What do you think of it, Miss Morland ? / say it is no
bad notion."
" I am sure I think it a very good one."
" Do you ? — ^that's honest, by heavens ! I am glad
you are no enemy to matrimony however. Did you ever
hear
( 123 )
hear the old song, ' Going to one wedding brings on
another ? ' I say, you will come to Belle's wedding,
I hope."
" Yes ; I have promised your sister to be with her, if
possible."
" And then you know " — ^twisting himself about and
forcing a foolish laugh^ — '' I say, then you know, we may
try the truth of this same old song."
" May we ? — but I never sing. Well, I wish you a good
journey. I dine with Miss Tilney to-day, and must now
be going home."
" Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. — Who
knows when we may be together again ? — Not but that
I shall be down again by the end of a fortnight, and
a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me."
" Then why do you stay away so long ? " replied
Catherine — finding that he waited for an answer.
" That is kind of you, however — kind and good-
natured. — I shall not forget it in a hurry. — But you have
more good-nature and all that, than any body living
I believe. A monstrous deal of good-nature, and it is
not only good -nature, but you have so much, so much of
every thing ; and then you have such — upon my soul
I do not know any body like you."
" Oh ! dear, there are a great many people like me,
I dare say, only a great deal better. Good morning
to you."
" But I say. Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my
respects at Fullerton before it is long, if not disagree-
able."
" Pray do. — ^My father and mother will be very glad to
see you."
" And I hope — I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be
sorry to see me."
" Oh ! dear, not at all. There are very few people
I am sorry to see. Company is always cheerful."
" That is just my way of thinking. Give me but
a little cheerful company, let me only have the company
of
( 124 )
of the people I love, let me only be where I like and with
whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I. — And
I am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have
a notion. Miss Morland, you and I think pretty much
alike upon most matters."
" Perhaps we may ; but it is more than I ever thought
of. And as to most matters, to say the truth, there are
not many that I know my own mind about."
" By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother
my brains with what does not concern me. My notion
of things is simple enough. Let me only have the girl
I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and
what care I for all the rest ? Fortune is nothing. I am
sure of a good income of my own ; and if she had not
a penny, why so much the better."
" Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good
fortune on one side, there can be no occasion for any on
the other. No matter which has it, so that there is enough.
I hate the idea of one great fortune looking out for another.
And to marry for money I think the wickedest thing in
existence. — Good day. — We shall be very glad to see you
at Fullerton, whenever it is convenient." And away she
went. It was not in the power of all his gallantry to
detain her longer. With such news to communicate, and
such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not to be
delayed by any thing in his nature to urge ; and she
hurried away, leaving him to the undivided consciousness
of his own happy address, and her explicit encourage-
ment.
The agitation which she had herself experienced on
first learning her brother's engagement, made her expect
to raise no inconsiderable emotion in Mr. and Mrs. Allen,
by the communication of the wonderful event. How
great was her disappointment ! The important affair,
which many words of preparation ushered in, had been
foreseen by them both ever since her brother's arrival ;
and all that they felt on the occasion was comprehended
in a wish for the young people's happiness, with a remark,
oil
( 125 )
on the gentleman's side, in favour of Isabella's beauty,
and on the lady's, of her great good luck. It was to
^Catherine the most surprizing insensibility. The dis-
closure however of the great secret of James's going to
Fullerton the day before, did raise some emotion in Mrs.
Allen. She could not listen to that with perfect calmness ;
but repeatedly regretted the necessity of its concealment,
wished she could have known his intention, wished she
could have seen him before he went, as she should certainly
have troubled him with her best regards to his father
and mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.
END OF VOL. I.
ik
o
o
l-H
o
NOETH ANGER ABBEY:
AND
PERSUASION.
BY THE AUTHOR OP " PRIDE AND PREJUDICE,'
*' MANSFIELD-PARK," &C.
WITH A BIOGKAPHICAL NOTICE OF THE
AUTHOR.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. ir.
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.
1818.
NORTHANGER ABBEY-
CHAPTER I.
Catherine's expectations of pleasure from her visit in
Milsom-street were so very high, that disappointment
was inevitable ; and accordingly, though she was most
politely received by General Tilney, and kindly welcomed
by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one
else of the party, she found, on her return, without
spending many hours in the examination of her feelings,
that she had gone to her appointment preparing for
happiness which it had hot afforded. Instead of finding
herself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from
the intercourse of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate
with her as before ; instead of seeing Henry Tilney to
greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a family party,
he had never said so little, nor been so little agreeable ;
and, in spite of their father's great civilities to her — in
spite of his thanks, invitations, and compliments — it had
been a release to get away from him. It puzzled her to
account for all this. It could not be General Tilney's
fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and good-
natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not
admit of a doubt, for he was tall and handsome, and
Henry's father. He could not be accountable for his
children's want of spirits, or for her want of enjoyment
in his company. The former she hoped at last might
have been accidental, and the latter she could only
attribute to her own stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the
particulars of the visit, gave a different explanation :
" It was all pride, pride, insufferable haughtiness and
pride ! She had long suspected the family to be very high,
^■^^^-^ K and
( 130 )
and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as
Miss Tilney's she had never heard of in her Hfe ! Not to
do the honours of her house with common good-breeding 1
— To behave to her guest with such superciliousness I —
Hardly even to speak to her ! "
" But it was not so bad as that, Isabella ; there was no
superciliousness ; she was very civil."
" Oh ! don't defend her ! And then the brother, he,
who had appeared so attached to you ! Good heavens !
well, some people's feelings are incomprehensible. And
so he hardly looked once at you the whole day ? "
" I do not say so ; but he did not seem in good spirits."
" How contemptible ! Of all things in the world
inconstancy is my aversion. Let me entreat you never
to think of him again, my dear Catherine ; indeed he is
unworthy of you."
" Unworthy ! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me."
" That is exactly what I say ; he never thinks of
you. — Such fickleness ! Oh ! how different to your
brother and to mine ! I really believe John has the most
constant heart."
" But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be
impossible for any body to behave to me with greater
civility and attention ; it seemed to be his only care to
entertain and make me happy."
" Oh ! I know no harm of him ; I do not suspect him
of pride. I believe he is a very gentleman-like man.
John thinks very well of him, and John's judgment — — '*
" Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening ;
we shall meet them at the rooms."
" And must I go ? "
" Do not you intend it ? I thought it was all settled."
" Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse
you nothing. But do not insist upon my being very
agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be some forty
miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it I beg ;
that is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will
plague me to death I dare say ; but I shall cut him very
short.
( 131 )
short. Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and that
is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall insist on his
keeping his conjecture to himself."
Isabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her
friend ; she was sure there had been no insolence in the
manners either of brother or sister ; and she did not
credit there being any pride in their hearts. The evening
rewarded her confidence ; she was met by one with the
same kindness, and by the other with the same attention
as heretofore : Miss Tilney took pains to be near her,
and Henry asked her to dance.
Having heard the day before in Milsom-street, that
their elder brother, Captain Tilney, was expected almost
every hour, she was at no loss for the name of a very
fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had
never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to
their party. She looked at him with great admiration,
and even supposed it possible, that some people might
think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her
eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance
less prepossessing. His taste and manners were beyond
a doubt decidedly inferior ; for, within her hearing, he
not only protested against every thought of dancing
himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it
possible. From the latter circumstance it may be pre-
sumed, that, whatever might be our heroine's opinion of
him, his admiration of her was not of a very dangerous
kind ; not likely to produce animosities between the
brothers, nor persecutions to the lady. He cannot be the
instigator of the three villains in horsemen's great coats,
by whom she will hereafter be forced into a travelling-
chaise and four, which will drive off with incredible speed.
Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by presentiments of
such an evil, or of any evil* at all, except that of having
but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness
with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to every
thing he said ; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming
so herself.
K2 At
( 132 )
At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came
towards them again, and, much to Catherine's dissatis-
faction, pulled his brother away. They retired whispering
together ; and, though her delicate sensibility did not
take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that
Captain Tilmey must have heard some malevolent misre-
presentation of her, which he now hastened to communi-
cate to his brother, in the hope of separating them for
ever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her
sight without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense
was of full five minutes' duration ; and she was beginning
to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they
both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry's
requesting to know, if she thought her friend. Miss
Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing, as his
brother would be most happy to be introduced to her.
Catherine, without hesitation, replied, that she was very
sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The
cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately
walked away.
" Your brother will not mind it I know," said she,
" because I heard him say before, that he hated dancing ;
but it was very good-natured in him to think of it. I sup-
pose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might
wish for a partner ; but he is quite mistaken, for she
would not dance upon any account in the world."
Henry smiled, and said, " How very little trouble it
can give you to understand the motive of other people's
actions."
*' Why ?— What do you mean ? "
" With you, it is not. How is such a one likely to be
influenced ? What is the inducement most likely to act
upon such a person's feelings, age, situation, and probable
habits of life considered ? — but, how should / be influenced,
what would be my inducement in acting so and so ? "
" I do not understand you."
" Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand
you perfectly well."
"Me?
i
( 133 )
*' Me ? — yes ; I cannot speak well enough to be unin-
telligible."
" Bravo ! — an excellent satire on modern language."
" But pray tell me what you mean."
" Shall I indeed ? — Do you really desire it ?— But you
are not aware of the consequences ; it will involve you
in a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring on
a disagreement between us."
" No, no ; it shall not do either ; I am not afraid."
" Well then, I only meant that your attributing my
brother's wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good-
nature alone, convinced me of your being superior in
good-nature yourself to all the rest of the world."
Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's
predictions were verified. There was a something, how-
ever, in his words which repaid her for the pain of con-
fusion ; and that something occupied her mind so much,
that she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak
or to listen, and almost forgetting where she was ; till,
roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw
her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands
across.
Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only
explanation of this extraordinary change which could at
that time be given ; but as it was not quite enough for
Catherine's comprehension, she spoke her astonishment
in very plain terms to her partner.
" I cannot think how it could happen ! Isabella was so
determined not to dance."
" And did Isabella never change her mind before ? "
" Oh ! but, because and your brother ! — After what
you told him from me, how could he think of going to
ask her ? "
" I cannot take surprize to myself on that head. You
bid me be surprized on your friend's account, and there-
fore I am ; but as for my brother, his conduct in the
business, I must own, has been no more than I believed
him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was
an
( 134 )
an open attraction ; her firmness, you know, could only
be understood by yourself."
" You are laughing ; but, I assure you, Isabella is very
firm in general."
"It is as much as should be said of any one. To be
always firm must be to be often obstinate. When
properly to relax is the trial of judgment ; and, without
reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe
has by no means chosen ill in fixing on the present
hour."
The friends were not able to get together for any
confidential discourse till all the dancing was over ; but
then, as they walked about the room arm in arm, Isabella
thus explained herself : — " I do not wonder at your
surprize ; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such
a rattle ! — Amusing enough, if my mind had been dis-
engaged ; but I would have given the world to sit still."
" Then why did not you ? "
" Oh ! my dear ! it would have looked so particular ;
and you know how I abhor doing that. I refused him
as long as I possibly could, but he would take no denial.
You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him to
excuse me, and get some other partner — but no, not he ;
after aspiring to my hand, there was nobody else in the
room he could bear to think of ; and it was not that he
wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with me. Oh !
such nonsense ! — I told him he had taken a very unlikely
way to prevail upon me ; for, of all things in the world,
I hated fine speeches and compliments ; — and so — '■ —
and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not
stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who intro-
duced him, might take it ill if I did not : and your dear
brother, I am sure he would have been miserable if I had
sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it is over !
My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his nonsense :
and then, — being such a smart young fellow, I saw every
eye was upon us."
" He is very handsome indeed."
" Handsome !
( 135 )
" Handsome ! — Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say
people would admire him in general ; but he is not at all
in my style of beauty. I hate a florid complexion and
dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amaz-
ingly conceited, I am sure. I took him down several
times you know in my way."
When the young ladies next met, they had a far more
interesting subject to discuss. James Morland's second
letter was then received, and the kind intentions of his
father fully explained. A living, of which Mr. Morland
was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred
pounds yearly value, was to be resigned to his son as
soon as he should be old enough to take it ; no trifling
deduction from the family income, no niggardly assign-
ment to one of ten children. An estate of at least equal
value, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.
James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming
gratitude ; and the necessity of waiting between two and
three years before they could marry, being, however
unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was born by
him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations
had been as unfixed as her ideas of her father's income,
and whose judgment was now entirely led by her
brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily con-
gratulated Isabella on having every thing so pleasantly
settled.
*' It is very charming indeed," said Isabella, with
a grave face. " Mr. Morland has behaved vastly hand-
some indeed," said the gentle Mrs. Thorpe, looking
anxiously at her daughter. " I only wish I could do as
much. One could not expect more from him you know.
If he finds he can do more by and bye, I dare say he will,
for I am sure he must be an excellent good hearted
man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin
on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so
moderate, you do not consider how little you ever want,
my dear."
"It is not on my own account I wish for more ; but
I cannot
( 136 )
I cannot bear to be the means of injuring my dear Morland,
making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to
find one in the common necessaries of Hfe. For myself,
it is nothing ; I never think of myself."
" I know you never do, my dear ; and you will always
find your reward in the affection it makes every body
feel for you. There never was a young woman so beloved
as you are by every body that knows you ; and I dare say
when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child — but do not
let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such
things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome you
know. I always heard he was a most excellent man ;
and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what,
if you had had a suitable fortune, he would have come
down with something more, for I am sure he must be
a most liberal-minded man."
" Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do,
I am sure. But every body has their failing you know,
and every body has a right to do what they like with
their own money." Catherine was hurt by these insinua-
tions. " I am very sure," said she, " that my father has
promised to do as much as he can afford."
Isabella recollected herself. " As to that, my sweet
Catherine, there cannot be a doubt, and you know me
well enough to be sure that a much smaller income would
satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that makes
me just at present a little out of spirits ; I hate money ;
and if our union could take place now upon only fifty
pounds a year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah !
my Catherine, you have found me out. There's the sting.
The long, long, endless two years and half that are to pass
before your brother can hold the living."
" Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe,
" we perfectly see into your heart. You have no disguise.
We perfectly understand the present vexation ; and
every body must love you the better for such a noble
honest affection."
Catherine's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen.
She
( 137 )
She endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage
was the only source of Isabella's regret ; and when she
saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable
as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute
thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and
was received with the most gratifying kindness.
CHAP-
( 138 )
CHAPTER II.
The Aliens had now entered on the sixth week of their
stay in Bath ; and whether it should be the last, was for
some time a question, to which Catherine listened with
a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the
Tilneys end so soon, was an evil which nothing could
counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake,
while the affair was in suspense, and every thing secured
when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken
for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight
was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes
seeing Henry Tilney, made but a small part of Catherine's
speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James's engage-
ment had taught her what could be done, she had got so
far as to indulge in a secret " perhaps," but in general
the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her
views : the present was now comprised in another three
weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period,
the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite
but little interest. In the course of the morning which
saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and
poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be
a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight
in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay, than Miss Tilney told her
of her father's having just determined upon quitting Bath
by the end of another week. Here was a blow ! The
past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to
the present disappointment. Catherine's countenance
fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed
Miss Tilney's concluding words, " By the end of another
week ! "
" Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give
the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disap-
pointed of some friends' arrival whom he expected to
meet
I 139 )
meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to
get home."
*' I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly,
'* if I had known this before — "
" Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner,
** you would be so good — it would make me very happy
if—"
The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility,
which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce
a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her
with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and
said, " Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being
successful in your application to your fair friend ? "
"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you
came in."
" Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your
heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland," he continued,
without leaving his daughter time to speak, " has been
forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has
perhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A letter from
my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home ;
and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis
of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my
very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in
Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you,
we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in
short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph
and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in
Gloucestershire ? I am almost ashamed to make the
request, though its presumption would certainly appear
greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty
such as your's — but not for the world would I pain it by
open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with
a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression.
Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this
lively place ; we can tempt you neither by amusement
nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain
and unpretending ; yet no endeavours shall be wanting
on
( 140 )
on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly
disagreeable."
Northanger Abbey I — ^These were thrilling words, and
wound up Catherine's feelings to the highest point of
extasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly
restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable
calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation ! To
have her company so warmly solicited ! Every thing
honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and
every future hope was contained in it ; and her acceptance,
with only the saving clause of papa and mamma's appro-
bation, was eagerly given. — " I will write home directly,"
said she, " and if they do not object, as I dare say they
will not "—
General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already
waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney-street, and
obtained their sanction of his wishes. " Since they can
consent to part with you," said he, " we may expect
philosophy from all the world."
Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary
civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly
settled, as this necessary reference to Fullerton would
allow.
The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's
feelings through the varieties of suspense, security, and
disappointment ; but they were now safely lodged in
perfect bliss ; and with spirits elated to rapture, with
Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips,
she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs.
Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to whom
they had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt
of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been
formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of
post their ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire.
This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had
hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured
beyond every other human creature, in friends and
fortune, circumstance and chance. Every thing seemed
to
( 141 )
to co-operate for her advantage. By the kindness of her
first friends the Aliens, she had been introduced into
scenes, where pleasures of every kind had met her. Her
feelings, her preferences had each known the happiness
of a return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been
able to create it. The affection of Isabella was to be
secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys, they, by whom
above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,
outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by
which their intimacy was to be continued. She was to
be their chosen visitor, she was to be for weeks under
the same roof with the person whose society she mostly
prized — and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to
be the roof of an abbey ! — Her passion for ancient edifices
was next in degree to her passion for Henry Tilney — and
castles and abbies made usually the charm of those
reveries which his image did not fill. To see and explore
either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters
of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish,
though to be more than the visitor of an hour, had seemed
too nearly impossible for desire. And yet, this was to
happen. With all the chances against her of house, hall,
place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an
abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp
passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be
within her daily reach, and she could not entirely subdue
the hope of some traditional legends, some awful memorials
of an injured and ill-fated nun.
It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little
elated by the possession of such a home ; that the con-
sciousness of it should be so meekly born. The power of
early habit only could account for it. A distinction to
which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority
of abode was no more to them than their superiority of
person.
Many were the inquiries she was eager to make of
Miss Tilney ; but so active were her thoughts, that when
these inquiries were answered, she was hardly more
assured
{ 142 r
assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been
a richly-endowed convent at the time of the Reformation,
of its having fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the
Tilneys on its dissolution, of a large portion of the ancient
building still making a part of the present dwelling
although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low in
a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising
woods of oak.
CHAP-
( 143 )
CHAPTER III.
With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was
hardly aware that two or three days had passed away,
without her seeing Isabella for more than a few minutes
together. She began first to be sensible of this, and to
sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the Pump-
room one morning, by Mrs. Allen's side, without any
thing to say or to hear ; and scarcely had she felt a five
minutes' longing of friendship, before the object of it
appeared, and inviting her to a secret conference, led the
way to a seat. " This is my favourite place," said she,
as they sat down on a bench between the doors, which
commanded a tolerable view of every body entering at
either, " it is so out of the way." .
Catherine, observing that Isabella's eyes were con-
tinually bent towards one door or the other, as in eager
expectation, and remembering how often she had been
falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a fine
opportunity for being really so ; and therefore gaily said,
" Do not be uneasy, Isabella. James will soon be here."
" Psha ! my dear creature," she replied, " do not think
me such a simpleton as to be always wanting to confine
him to my elbow. It would be hideous to be always
together; we should be the jest of the place. And so
you are going to Northanger ! — I am amazingly glad
of it. It is one of the finest old places in England,
I understand. I shall depend upon a most particular
description of it."
" You shall certainly have the best in my power to
give. But who are you looking for ? Are your sisters
coming ? "
" I am not looking for any body. One's eyes must lie
somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have
of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an hundred miles off,
I am
( 144 )
I am amazingly absent ; I believe I am the most absent
creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case
with minds of a certain stamp."
" But I thought, Isabella, you had something in
particular to tell me ? "
" Oh ! yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what
I was saying. My poor head ! I had quite forgot it.
Well, the thing is this, I have just had a letter from
John ; — you can guess the contents."
" No, indeed, I cannot."
" My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected.
What can he write about, but yourself? You know he
is over head and ears in love with you."
" With 7ne, dear Isabella ! "
" Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite
absurd ! Modesty, and all that, is very well in its way,
but really a little common honesty is sometimes quite as
becoming. I have no idea of being so overstrained !
It is fishing for compliments. His attentions were such
as a child must have noticed. And it was but half an
hour before he left Bath, that you gave him the most
positive encouragement. He says so in this letter, says
that he as good as made yoii an offer, and that you
received his advances in the kindest way ; and now he
wants me to urge his suit, and say all manner of pretty
things to you. So it is in vain to affect ignorance."
Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed
her astonishment at such a charge, protesting her inno-
cence of every thought of Mr. Thorpe's being in love with
her, and the consequent impossibility of her having ever
intended to encourage him. "As to any attentions on
his side, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was
sensible of them for a moment — except just his asking me
to dance the first day of his coming. And as to making
me an offer, or any thing like it, there must be some
unaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood
a thing of that kind, you know ! — and, as I ever wish to
be beheved, I solemnly protest that no syllable of such
a nature
( 145 )
a nature ever passed between us. The last half hour
before he went away ! — It must be all and completely
a mistake — for I did not see him once that whole morning."
" But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole
morning in Edgar's Buildings — it was the day your
father's consent came — and I am pretty sure that you
and John were alone in the parlour, some time before you
left the house."
" Are you ? — Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say —
but for the life of me, I cannot recollect it. — I do remember
now being with you, and seeing him as well as the rest — but
that we were ever alone for five minutes — However, it is
not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass on his
side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection
of it, that I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for
any thing of the kind from him. I am excessively con-
cerned that he should have any regard for me — but
indeed it has been quite unintentional on my side, I never
had the smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive him as soon
as you can, and tell him I beg his pardon — that is — I do
not know what I ought to say — but make him understand
what I mean, in the properest way. I would not speak
disrespectfully of a brother of your's, Isabella, I am sure ;
but you know very well that if I could think of one man
more than another — he is not the person." Isabella was
silent. " My dear friend, you must not be angry with
me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much
about me. And, you know, we shall still be sisters."
" Yes, yes," (with a blush) " there are more ways than
one of our being sisters. — But where am I wandering
to ? — Well, my dear Catherine, the case seems to be, that
you are determined against poor John — is not it so ? "
" I certainly cannot return his affection, and as cer-
tainly never meant to encourage it."
I" Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you
any further. John desired me to speak to you on the
subject, and therefore I have. But I confess, as soon as
I read his letter, I thought it a very foolish, imprudent
f "*^-5 L business.
( 146 )
business, and not likely to promote the good of either ;
for what were you to live upon, su_pposing you came
together ? You have both of you something to be sure,
but it is not a trifle that will support a family now-a-days ;
and after all that romancers may say, there is no doing
without money. I only wonder John could think of
it ; he could not have received my last."
" You do acquit me then of any thing wrong ? — You
are convinced that I never meant to deceive your brother,
never suspected him of liking me till this moment ? "
" Oh ! as to that," answered Isabella laughingly, " I do
not pretend to determine what your thoughts and designs
in time past may have been. All that is best known to
yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will occur,
and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement
than one wishes to stand by. But you may be assured
that I am the last person in the world to judge you
severely. All those things should be allowed for in
youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you
know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances
change, opinions alter."
"But my opinion of your brother never did alter ;
it was always the same. You are describing what never
happened."
" My dearest Catherine," continued the other without
at all listening to her, " I would not for all the world be
the means of hurrying you into an engagement before
you knew what you were about. I do not think any
thing would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your
happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my
brother, and who perhaps after all, you know, might be
just as happy without you, for people seldom know what
they would be at, young men especially, they are so
amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is,
why should a brother's happiness be dearer to me than
a friend's ? You know I carry my notions of friendship,
pretty high. But, above all things, my dear Catherine,,
do not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you
are
( 147 )
are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to repent
it. Tilney says, there is nothing people are so often
deceived in, as the state of their own affections, and
I beUeve he is very right. Ah ! here he comes ; never
mind, he will not see us, I am sure."
Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney ; and
Isabella, earnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke,
soon caught his notice. He approached immediately,
and took the seat to which her movements invited him.
His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken
low, she could distinguish, " What ! always to be watched,
in person or by proxy ! "
" Psha, nonsense ! " was Isabella's answer in the same
half whisper. " Why do you put such things into my
head ? If I could believe it — my spirit, you know, is
pretty independent."
" I wish your heart were independent. That would
be enough for me."
" My heart, indeed ! What can you have to do with
hearts ? You men have none of you any hearts."
" If we have not hearts, we have eyes ; and they give
us torment enough."
" Do they ? I am sorry for it ; I am sorry they find
any thing so disagreeable in me. I will look another way.
I hope this pleases you, (turning her back on him,) I hope
your eyes are not tormented now."
" Never more so ; for the edge of a blooming cheek is
still in view — at once too much and too little."
Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance
could listen no longer. Amazed that Isabella could
endure it, and jealous for her brother, she rose up, and
saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed their walking.
But for this Isabella shewed no inclination. She was so
amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about
the Pump-room ; and if she moved from her seat she
should miss her sisters, she was expecting her sisters
every moment ; so that her dearest Catherine must
excuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But
L 2 Catherine
( 148 )
Catherine could be stubborn too ; and Mrs. Allen just
then coming up to propose their returning home, she
joined her and walked out of the Pump-room, leaving
Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much
uneasiness did she thus leave them. It seemed to her
that Captain Tilney was falling in love with Isabella, and
Isabella unconsciously encouraging him ; unconsciously
it must be, for Isabella's attachment to James was as
certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To
doubt her truth or good intentions was impossible ; and
yet, during the whole of their conversation her manner
had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked more like
her usual self, and not so much about money ; and had
not looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney.
How strange that she should not perceive his admiration !
Catherine longed to give her a hint of it, to put her on her
guard, and prevent all the pain which her too lively
behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her
brother.
The compliment of John Thorpe's affection did not
make amends for this thoughtlessness in his sister. She
was almost as far from believing as from wishing it to be
sincere ; for she had not forgotten that he could mistake,
and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement
convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very
egregious. In vanity therefore she gained but little, her
chief profit was in wonder. That he should think it
worth his while to fancy himself in love with her, was
a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his
attentions ; she had never been sensible of any ; but
Isabella had said many things which she hoped had been
spoken in haste, and would never be said again ; and
upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present ease
and comfort.
CHAP-
( 149 )
CHAPTER IV.
A FEW days passed away, and Catherine, though not
allowing herself to suspect her friend, could not help
watching her closely. The result of her observations
was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature.
When she saw her indeed surrounded only by their imme-
diate friends in Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney-street, her
change of manners was so trifling that, had it gone no
farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A something of
languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind
which Catherine had never heard of before, would occa-
sionally come across her ; but had nothing worse appeared,
that might only have spread a new grace and inspired
a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in
public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily
as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal
share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration
became too positive to be past over. What could be
meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could
be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could
not be aware of the pain she was inflicting ; but it was
a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could
not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him
grave and uneasy ; and however careless of his present
comfort the woman might be who had given him her
heart, to her it was always an object. For poor Captain
Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks
did not please her, his name was a passport to her good
will, and she thought with sincere compassion of his
approaching disappointment ; for, in spite of what she
had believed herself to overhear in the Pump-room, his
behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of
Isabella's engagement, that she could not, upon reflection,
imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her
brother
.( 150 )
brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the
fault must have been in her misapprehension. She
wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of
her situation, and make her aware of this double unkind-
ness ; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or com-
prehension was always against her. If able to suggest
a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this
distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family
became her chief consolation ; their journey into Glou-
cestershire was to take place within a few days, and
Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace
to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at
present no intention of removing ; he was not to be of the
party to Northanger, he was to continue at Bath. When
Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made.
She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his
brother's evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreat-
ing him to make known her prior engagement.
" My brother does know it," was Henry's answer.
" Does he ? — then why does he stay here ? "
He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of some-
thing else ; but she eagerly continued, " Why do not you
persuade him to go away ? The longer he stays, the
worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his
own sake, and for every body's sake, to leave Bath
directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable
again ; but he can have no hope here, and it is only
staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, " I am
sure my brother would not wish to do that."
" Then you will persuade him to go away ? "
" Persuasion is not at command ; but pardon me, if
I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself
told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what
he is about, and must be his own master."
" No, he does not know what he is about," cried
Catherine ; "he does not know the pain he is giving my
brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am
sure he is very uncomfortable."
" And
( 151 )
*' And are you sure it is my brother's doing ? "
" Yes, very sure."
" Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss
Thorpe's admission of them, that gives the pain ? "
" Is not it the same thing ? "
" I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference.
No man is offended by another man's admiration of the
woman he loves ; it is the woman only who can make it
a torment."
Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, " Isabella
is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment,
for she is very much attached to my brother. She has
been in love with him ever since they first met, and
while my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted
herself almost into a fever. You know she must be
attached to him."
" I understand : she is in love with James, and flirts
with Frederick."
" Oh ! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man
cannot flirt with another."
" It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor
flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen
must each give up a little."
After a short pause, Catherine resumed with " Then
you do not believe Isabella so very mueh attached to my
brother ? "
" I can have no opinion on that subject."
" But what can your brother mean ? If he knows her
engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour ? "
" You are a very close questioner."
" Am I ? — I only ask what I want to be told."
" But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell ? "
" Yes, I think so ; for you must know your brother's
heart."
" My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present
occasion, I assure you I can only guess at."
" Well ? "
" Well ! — Nay, if it is to be guess-work, let us all guess
for
( 152 )
for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture
is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is.
a lively, and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man;
he has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend,
and he has known her engagement almost as long as he
has known her."
" Well," said Catherine, after some moments' con-
sideration, " you may be able to guess at your brother's
intentions from all this ; but I am sure I cannot. But is
not your father uncomfortable about it ? — Does not he
want Captain Tilney to go away ? — Sure, if your father
were to speak to him, he would go."
" My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, " in this amiable
solicitude for your brother's comfort, may you not be
a little mistaken ? Are you not carried a little too far ?
Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss
Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or at least her
good-behaviour, is onlj^ to be secured by her seeing nothing
of Captain Tilney ? Is he safe only in soHtude ? — or',
is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by
any one else ? — He cannot think this — and you may be
sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say,
' Do not be uneasy,' because I know that you are so, at
this moment ; but be as little uneasy as you can. You
have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother
and your friend ; depend upon it therefore, that real
jealousy never can exist between them ; depend upon it
that no disagreement between them can be of any dura-
tion. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither
heart can be to you ; they know exactly what is required
and what can be borne ; and you may be certain, that
one will never tease the other beyond what is known to
be pleasant."
Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he
added, " Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us,
he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps
only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon
expire, and he must return to his regiment. — And what
will
( 153 )
will then be their acquaintance ? — The mess-room will
drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh
with your brother over poor Tilney's passion for a month."
Catherine would contend no longer against comfort.
She had resisted its approaches during the whole length of
a speech, but it now carried her captive. Henry Tilney
must know best. She blamed herself for the extent of
her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the
subject again.
Her resolution was supported by Isabella's behaviour
in their parting interview. The Thorpes spent the last
evening of Catherine's stay in Pulteney-street, and
nothing passed between the lovers to excite her uneasiness,
or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in
excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid.
Her tenderness for her friend seemed rather the first
feeling of her heart ; but that at such a moment was
allowable ; and once she gave her lover a flat contra-
diction, and once she drew back her hand ; but Catherine
remembered Henry's instructions, and placed it all to
judicious affection. The embraces, tears, and promises
of the parting fair ones may be fancied.
CHAP-
( 154 )
CHAPTER V.
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young
friend, whose good-humour and cheerfulness had made
her a valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose
enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her
happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented
their wishing it otherwise ; and, as they were to remain
only one more week in Bath themselves, her quitting
them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen attended
her to Milsom-street, where she was to breakfast, and saw
her seated with the kindest welcome among her new
friends ; but so great was her agitation in finding herself
as one of the family, and so fearful was she of not doing
exactly what was right, and of not being able to preserve
their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the
first five minutes, she could almost have wished to return
with him to Pulteney-street.
Miss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon did awa^
some of her unpleasant feelings ; but still she was far
from being at ease ; nor could the incessant attentions
of the General himself entirely reassure her. Nay, per-
verse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not
have felt less, had she been less attended to. His anxiety
for her comfort — his continual solicitations that she would
eat, and his often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing
to her taste — though never in her life before had she
beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table — made it
impossible for her to forget for a moment that she was
a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and
knew not how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was nof^
improved by the General's impatience for the appearance
of his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he expressed at
his laziness when Captain Tilney at last came down.
She was quite pained by the severity of his father's
reproof.
( 155 )
reproof, which seemed disproportionate to the offence ;
and much was her concern increased, when she found
herself the principal cause of the lecture ; and that his
tardiness was chiefly resented from being disrespectful
to her. This Avas placing her in a very uncomfortable
situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain
Tilney, without being able to hope for his good-will.
He listened to his father in silence, and attempted
not any defence, which confirmed her in fearing, that the
inquietude of his mind, on Isabella's account, might, by
keeping him long sleepless, have been the real cause of
his rising late. — It was the first time of her being decidedly
in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to
form her opinion of him ; but she scarcely heard his voice
while his father remained in the room ; and even after-
wards, so much were his spirits affected, she could
distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper to
Eleanor, " How glad I shall be when you are all off."
The bustle of going was not pleasant. — The clock struck
ten while the trunks were carrying down, and the General
had fixed to be out of Milsom-street by that hour. His
great coat, instead of being brought for him to put on
directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was
to accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise
was not drawn out, though there were three people to go
in it, and his daughter's maid had so crowded it with
parcels, that Miss Morland would not have room to sit ;
and, so much was he influenced by this apprehension
when he handed her in, that she had some difficulty in
saving her own new writing-desk from being thrown out
into the street. — At last, however, the door was closed
upon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace
in which the handsome, highly-fed four horses of a gentle-
man usually perform a journey of thirty miles : such was
the distance of Northanger from Bath, to be now divided
into two equal stages. Catherine's spirits revived as they
drove from the door ; for with Miss Tilney she felt no
restraint ; and, with the interest of a road entirely new
to
( 156 )
to her, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, she
caught the last view of Bath without any regret, and
met with every mile-stone before she expected it. The
tediousness of a two hours* bait at Petty-France, in which
there was nothing to be done but to eat without being
hungry, and loiter about without any thing to see, next
followed — and her admiration of the style in which they
travelled, of the fashionable chaise-and-four — postilions
handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups,
and numerous out-riders properly mounted, sunk a little
under this consequent inconvenience. Had their party
been perfectly agreeable, the delay would have been
nothing ; but General Tilney, though so charming a man,
seemed always a check upon his children's spirits, and
scarcely any thing was said but by himself ; the observa-
tion of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn
afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made
Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and
appeared to lengthen the two hours into four. — At last,
however, the order of release was given ; and much was
Catherine then surprized by the General's proposal of her
taking his place in his son's curricle for the rest of the
journey : — " the day was fine, and he was anxious for her
seeing as much of the country as possible."
The remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting
young men's open carriages, made her blush at the men-
tion of such a plan, and her first thought was to decline
it ; but her second was of greater deference for G^eneral
Tilney 's judgment ; he could not propose any thing
improper for her ; and, in the course of a few minutes,
she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy
a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced
her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world ;
the chaise-and-four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be
sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business, and
she could not easily forget its having stopped two hours
at Petty-France. Half the time would have been enough
for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses
disposed
I
( 137 )
disposed to move, that, had not the General chosen to
have his own carriage lead the way, they could have
passed it with ease in half a minute. But the merit of
the curricle did not all belong to the horses ; — Henry
drove so well, — so quietly — without making any disturb-
ance, without parading to her, or swearing at them ; so
different from the only gentleman-coachman whom it
was in her power to compare him with ! — And then his
hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his great
coat looked so becomingly important ! — To be driven by
him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the
greatest happiness in the world. In addition to every
other delight, she had now that of listening to her own
praise ; of being thanked at least, on his sister's account,
for her kindness in thus becoming her visitor ; of hearing
it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating
real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably
circumstanced — she had no female companion — and, in
the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without
any companion at all.
" But how can that be ? " said Catherine, " are not
you with her ? "
" Northanger is not more than half my home ; I have
an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is
nearly twenty miles from my father's, and some of my
time is necessarily spent there."
" How sorry you must be for that ! "
" I am always sorry to leave Eleanor."
" Yes ; but besides your affection for her, you must
be so fond of the abbey ! — After being used to such
a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must
be very disagreeable."
He smiled, and said, " You have formed a very favour-
able idea of the abbey."
" To be sure I have. Is not it a fine old place, just Hke
what one reads about ? "
" And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors
that a building such as ' what one reads about ' may
produce ?
( 158 )
produce ? — Have you a stout heart ? — Nerves fit for
sliding pannels and tapestry ? '*
" Oh ! yes — I do not think I should be easily frightened,
because there would be so many people in the house —
and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left
deserted for years, and then the family come back to
it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally
happens."
" No, certainly. — We shall not have to explore our way
into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood
fire — nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of
a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you
must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever
means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is
always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While
they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is
formally conducted by Dorothy the ancient housekeeper
up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages,
into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin
died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such
a ceremony as this ? Will not your mind misgive you,
when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber — too lofty
and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single
lamp to take in its size — its walls hung with tapestry
exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark
green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal
appearance. Will not your heart sink within you ? "
" Oh ! but this will not happen to me, I am sure."
" How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your
apartment ! — And what will you discern ? — Not tables,
toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps
the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous
chest which no efforts can open, and over the fire-place
the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features
will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be
able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy meanwhile,
no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great
agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise
your
I
( 159 )
your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose
that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly
haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single
domestic within call. With this parting cordial she
curtseys off — you listen to the sound of her receding
footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you — and
when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door,
you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock."
" Oh ! Mr. Tilney, how frightful !— This is just hke a
book ! — But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your
housekeeper is not really Dorothy. — Well, what then ? "
*' Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first
night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror of
the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours'
unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the
third night after your arrival, you will probably have
a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to
shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the
neighbouring mountains — and during the frightful gusts
of wind which accompany it, you will probably think you
discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of
the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable
of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable
a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and
throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to
examine this mystery. After a very short search, you
will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully con-
structed as to defy the minutest inspection, and on
opening it, a door will immediately appear — which door
being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will,
after a few efforts, succeed in opening, — and, with your
lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small
vaulted room."
" No, indeed ; I should be too much frightened to do
any such thing."
" What ! not when Dorothy has given you to under-
stand that there is a secret subterraneous communication
between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony,
scarcely
( 160 )
scarcely two miles off — Could you shrink from so simple
an adventure ? No, no, you will proceed into this small
vaulted room, and through this into several others,
without perceiving any thing very remarkable in either.
In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another a few
drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instru-
ment of torture ; but there being nothing in all this out
of the common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted,
you will return towards your own apartment. In repass-
ing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes
will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of
ebony and gold, which, though narrowly examining the
furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by
an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to
it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer ;
— but for some time without discovering any thing of
importance — perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard
of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret
spring, an inner compartment will open — a roll of paper
appears : — you seize it — it contains many sheets of manu-
script— ^you hasten with the precious treasure into your
own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher
' Oh ! thou — whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands
these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall ' — when
your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you
in total darkness.'
" Oh ! no, no — do not say so. Well, go on."
But Henry was too much amused by the interest he
had raised, to be able to carry it farther ; he could no
longer command solemnity either of subject or voice, and
was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy in the
perusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself,
grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to
assure him that her attention had been fixed without the
smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he
related. " Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never put
her into such a chamber as he had described ! — She was
not at all afraid."
As
( 161 )
As they drew near the end of their journey, her im-
patience for a sight of the abbey — for some time suspended
by his conversation on subjects very different — returned
in full force, and every bend in the road was expected
with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of
grey stone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with
the last beams of the sun playing in beautiful splendour
on its high Gothic windows. But so low did the building
stand, that she found herself passing through the great
gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger,
without having discerned even an antique chimney.
She knew not that she had any right to be surprized,
but there was a something in this mode of approach
which she certainly had not expected. To pass between
lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with such
ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so
rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel, without
obstacle, alarm or solemnity of any kind, struck her as
odd and inconsistent. She was not long at leisure how-
ever for such considerations. A sudden scud of rain
driving full in her face, made it impossible for her to
observe any thing further, and fixed all her thoughts on
the welfare of her new straw bonnet : — and she was
actually under the Abbey walls, was springing, with
Henry's assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the
shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on to the
hall, where her friend and the General were waiting to
welcome her, without feeling one aweful foreboding of
future misery to herself, or one moment's suspicion of
any past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn
edifice. The breeze had not seemed to waft the sighs of
the murdered to her ; it had wafted nothing worse than
a thick mizzling rain ; and having given a good shake to
her habit, she was ready to be shewn into the common
drawing-room, and capable of considering where she was.
An abbey ! — yes, it was delightful to be really in an
abbey ! — but she doubted, as she looked round the room, •
whether any thing within her observation, would have
1781.5 j^j given
( 162 )
given her the consciousness. The furniture was in all the
profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fire-place,
where she had expected the ample width and ponderous
carving of former times, was contracted to a Rumford,
with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and orna-
ments over it of the prettiest English china. The win-
dows, to which she looked with peculiar dependence, from
having heard the General talk of his preserving them in
their Gothic form with reverential care, were yet less what
her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch
was preserved — the form of them was Gothic — they might
be even casements — but every pane was so large, so clear, so
light ! To an imagination which had hoped for the smallest
divisions, and the heaviest stone- work, for painted glass,
dirt and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.
The General, j^erceiving how her eye was employed,
began to talk of the smallness of the room and simplicity
of the furniture, where every thing being for daily use,
pretended only to comfort, &c. ; flattering himself how-
ever that there were some apartments in the Abbey not
unworthy her notice — and was proceeding to mention the
costly gilding of one in particular, when taking Out his
watch, he stopped short to pronounce it with surprize
within twenty minutes of five ! This seemed the word of
separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away by
Miss Tilney in such a manner as convinced her that the
strictest punctuality to the family hours would be expected
at Northanger.
Returning through the large and lofty hall, they
ascended a broad staircase of shining oak, which, after
many flights and many landing-places, brought them
upon a long wide gallery. On one side it had a range of
doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which
Catherine had only time to discover looked into a quad-
rangle, before Miss Tilney led the way into a chamber,
and scarcely staying to hope she would find it comfortable,
left her with an anxious entreaty that she would make
as little alteration as possible in her dress.
CHAP-
( 163 )
CHAPTER VI.
A moment's glance was enough to satisfy Catherine
that her apartment was very unhke the one which Henry
had endeavoured to alarm her by the description of. — It
was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
neither tapestry nor velvet. — The walls were papered,
the floor was carpeted ; the windows were neither less
perfect, nor more dim than those of the drawing-room
below ; the furniture, though not of the latest fashion,
was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room
altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantane-
ously at ease on this point, she resolved to lose no time
in particular examination of any thing, as she greatly
dreaded disobliging the General by any delay. Her habit
therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she
was preparing to unpin the linen package, which the
chaise-seat had conveyed for her immediate accommoda-
tion, when her eye suddenly fell on a large high chest,
standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fire-
place. The sight of it made her start ; and, forgetting
every thing else, she stood gazing on it in motionless
wonder, while these thoughts crossed her : —
" This is strange indeed ! I did not expect such a sight
as this ! — An immense heavy chest ! — What can it hold? —
Why should it be placed here ? — Pushed back too, as if
meant to be out of sight ! — I will look into it — cost me
what it may, I will look into it — and directly too— by
day-light. — If I stay till evening my candle may go out."
She advanced and examined it closely : it was of cedar,
curiously inlaid with some darker wood, and raised, about
a foot from the ground, on a car\xd stand of the same.
The lock was silver, though' tarnished from age; at each
end were the imperfect remains of handles also of silver,
broken perhaps prematurely by some strange violence ;
M2 and.
( 164 )
and, on the centre of the lid, was a mysterious cypher,
in the same metal. Catherine bent over it intently, but
without being able to distinguish any thing with certainty.
She could not, in whatever direction she took it, beheve
the last letter to be a T ; and yet that it should be any
thing else in that house was a circumstance to raise no
common degree of astonishment. If not originally their's,
by what strange events could it have fallen into the
Tilney family ?
Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing
greater ; and seizing, with trembling hands, the hasp of
the lock, she resolved at all hazards to satisfy herself at
least as to its contents. With difficulty, for something
seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches ;
but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the
room made her, starting, quit her hold, and the lid closed
with alarming violence. This ill-timed intruder was
Miss Tilney's maid, sent by her mistress to be of use to
Miss Morland ; and though Catherine immediately dis-
missed her, it recalled her to the sense of what she ought
to be doing, and forced her, in spite of her anxious desire
to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in her dressing
without further delay. Her progress was not quick, for
her thoughts and her eyes were still bent on the object
so well calculated to interest and alarm ; and though
she dared not waste a moment upon a second attempt,
she could not remain many paces from the chest. At
length, however, having slipped one arm into her gown,
her toilette seemed so nearly finished, that the impatience
of her curiosity might safely be indulged. One moment
surely might be spared ; and, so desperate should be the
exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by super-
natural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown
back. With this spirit she sprang forward, and her
confidence did not deceive her. Her resolute effort threw
back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes the view
of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing
at one end of the chest in undisputed possession I
She
( 165 )
She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprize,
when Miss Tihiey, anxious for her friend's being ready,
entered the room, and to the rising shame of having
harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation, was
tlien added the shame of being caught in so idle a search.
" That is a curious old chest, is not it ? " said Miss
Tilney, as Catherine hastily closed it and turned away to
the glass. " It is impossible to say how many generations
it has been here. How it came to be first put in this room
I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought
it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets.
The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult to
open. In that corner, however, it is at least out of the
way.'*
Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once
blushing, tying her gown, and forming wise resolutions
with the most violent dispatch. Miss Tilney gently
hinted her fear of being late ; and in half a minute they
ran down stairs together, in an alarm not wholly un-
founded, for General Tilney was pacing the drawing-room,
his watch in his hand, and having, on the very instant of
their entering, pulled the bell with violence, ordered
" Dinner to be on table directly ! "
Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he
spoke, and sat pale and breathless, in a most humble
mood, concerned for his children, and detesting old chests ;
and the General recovering his politeness as he looked at
her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter,
for so foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was abso-
lutely out of breath from haste, when there was not the
least occasion for hurry in the world : but Catherine
could not at all get over the double distress of having
involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton
herself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table,
when the General's complacent smiles, and a good
appetite of her own, restored her to peace. The dining-
parlour was a noble room, suitable in its dimensions to
a much larger drawing-room than the one in common use,
and
( 166 )
and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was
almost lost on the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw
little more than its spaciousness and the number of their
attendants. Of the former, she spoke aloud her admira-
tion ; and the General, with a very gracious countenance,
acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room ;
and further confessed, that, though as careless on such
subjects as most people, he did look upon a tolerably
large eating-room as one of the necessaries of life ; he
supposed, however, " that she must have been used to
much better sized apartments at Mr. Allen's ? "
" No, indeed," was Catherine's honest assurance ; " Mr.
Allen's dining-parlour was not more than half as large : "
and she had never seen so large a room as this in her life.
The General's good-humour increased. — Why, as he had
such rooms, he thought it would be simple not to make
use of them ; but, upon his honour, he believed there
might be more comfort in rooms of only half their size.
Mr. Allen's house, he was sure, must be exactly of the
true size for rational happiness.
The evening passed without any further disturbance,
and, in the occasional absence of General Tilney, with
much positive cheerfulness. It was only in his presence
that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue from her journey ;
and even then, even in moments of languor or restraint,
a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could
think of her friends in Bath without one wish of being
with them.
The night was stormy ; the Avind had been rising at
intervals the whole afternoon ; and by the time the party
broke up, it blew and rained violently. Catherine, as she
crossed the hall, listened to the tempest with sensations
of awe ; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of
the ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant
door, felt for the first time that she was really in an
Abbey. — Yes, these were characteristic sounds ; — they
brought to her recollection a countless variety of dreadful
situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings had
witnessed.
( 167 )
witnessed, and such storms ushered in ; and most heartily
did she rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her
entrance within walls so solemn ! — She had nothing to
dread from midnight assassins or drunken gallants.
Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had
told her that morning. In a house so furnished, and so
guarded, she could have nothing to explore or to suffer ;
and might go to her bedroom as securely as if it had been
her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying
her mind, as she proceeded up stairs, she was enabled,
especially on perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two
doors from her, to enter her room with a tolerably stout
heart ; and her spirits were immediately assisted by the
cheerful blaze of a wood fire. " How much better is this,"
said she, as she walked to the fender — " how much better
to find a fire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in
the cold till all the family are in bed, as so many poor
girls have been obliged to do, and then to have a faithful
old servant frightening one by coming in with a faggot !
How glad I am that Northanger is what it is ! If it had
been like some other places, I do not know that, in such
a night as this, I could have answered for my courage : —
but now, to be sure, there is nothing to alarm one."
She looked round the room. The window curtains
seemed in motion. It could be nothing but the violence
of the wind penetrating through the divisions of the
shutters ; and she stept boldly forward, carelessly
humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped
courageously behind each curtain, saw nothing on either
low window seat to scare her, and on placing a hand
against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction of the
wind's force. A glance at the old chest, as she turned
away from this examination, was not without its use ;
she scorned the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and began
with a most happy indifference to prepare herself for bed.
" She should take her time ; she should not hurry her-
self ; she did not care if she were the last person up in the
house. But she would not make up her fire ; that would
seem
( 168 )
seem cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light
after she were in bed." The fire therefore died away, and
Catherine, having spent the best part of an hour in her
arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into
bed, when, on giving a parting glance round the room,
she was struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned
black cabinet, which, though in a situation conspicuous
enough, had never caught her notice before. Henry's
words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to
escape her observation at first, immediately rushed across
her ; and though there could be nothing really in it, there
was something whimsical, it was certainly a very remark-
able coincidence ! She took her candle and looked closely
at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold ;
but it was Japan, black and yellow Japan of the hand-
somest kind ; and as she held her candle, the yellow had
very much the effect of gold. The key was in the door,
and she had a strange fancy to look into it ; not however
with the smallest expectation of finding any thing, but
it was so very odd, after what Henry had said. In short,
she could not sleep till she had examined it. So, placing
the candle with great caution on a chair, she seized the
key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn it ;
but it resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not
discouraged, she tried it another way ; a bolt flew, and
she believed herself successful ; but how strangely
mjT'sterious ! — the door was still immoveable. She paused
a moment in breathless wonder. The wind roared down
the chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows,
and every thing seemed to speak the awfulness of her
situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such
a point, would be vain, since sleep must be impossible
with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed
in her immediate vicinity. Again therefore she applied
herself to the key, and after moving it in every possible
way for some instants with the determined celerity of
hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded to her hand :
her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and
having
( 169 )
having thrown open each folding door, the second being
secured only by bolts of less wonderful construction than
the lock, though in that her eye could not discern any
thing unusual, a double range of small drawers appeared
in view, with some larger drawers above and below them ;
and in the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock
and key, secured in all probability a cavity of importance.
Catherine's heart beat quick, but her courage did not
fail her. With a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye
straining with curiosity, her fingers grasped the handle
of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely empty.
With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second,
a third, a fourth ; each was equally empty. Not one
was left unsearched, and in not one was any thing found.
Well read in the art of concealing a treasure, the possi-
bility of false linings to the drawers did not escape her,
and she felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain.
The place in the middle alone remained now unexplored ;
and though she had " never from the first had the smallest
idea of finding any thing in any part of the cabinet, and
was not in the least disappointed at her ill success thus
far, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly
while she was about it." It was some time however
before she could unfasten the door, the same difficulty
occurring in the management of this inner lock as of the
outer ; but at length it did open ; and not vain, as
hitherto, was her search ; her quick eyes directly fell on
a roll of paper pushed back into the further part of the
cavity, apparently for concealment, and her feelings at
that moment were indescribable. Her heart fluttered,
her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She
seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript,
for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters ;
and while she acknowledged with awful sensations this
striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold,
resolved instantly to peruse every line before she attempted
to rest.
The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her
turn
I
( no )
turn to it with alarm ; but there was no danger of its
sudden extinction, it had yet some hours to burn ; and
that she might not have any greater difficulty in distin-
guishing the writing than what its ancient date might
occasion, she hastily snuffed it. Alas ! it was snuffed
and extinguished in one. A lamp could not have expired
with more awful effect. Catherine, for a few moments,
was motionless with horror. It was done completely ;
not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to
the rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable and im-
moveable filled the room. A violent gust of wind, rising
with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment.
Catherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause
which succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and the
closing of a distant door struck on her affrighted ear.
Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat
stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand,
and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in,
and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far
underneath the clothes. To close her eyes in sleep that
night, she felt must be entirely out of the question.
With a curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every
way so agitated, repose must be absolutely impossible.
The storm too abroad so dreadful ! — She had not been
used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast seemed
fraught with awful intelligence. The manuscript so
wonderfully found, so wonderfully accomplishing the
morning's prediction, how was it to be accounted for ? —
What could it contain ? — to whom could it relate ? — by
what means could it have been so long concealed ? — and
how singularly strange that it should fall to her lot to
discover it ! Till she had made herself mistress of its
contents, however, she could have neither repose nor
comfort ; and with the sun's first rays she was determined
to peruse it. But many were the tedious hours which
must yet intervene. She shuddered, tossed about in her
bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still
raged, and various were the noises, more terrific even
than
( ni )
than the wind, which struck at intervals on her startled
ear. The very curtains of her bed seemed at one moment
in motion, and at another the lock of her door was agitated,
as if by the attempt of somebody to enter. Hollow
murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more
than once her blood was chilled by the sound of distant
moans. Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied
Catherine had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks
in the house, before the tempest subsided, or she unknow-
ingly fell fast asleep.
CHAP-
( 172 )
CHAPTER VII.
The housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at
eight o'clock the next day, was the sound which first
roused Catherine ; and she opened her eyes, wondering
that they could ever have been closed, on objects of
cheerfulness ; her fire was already burning, and a bright
morning had succeeded the tempest of the night. Instan-
taneously with the consciousness of existence, returned
her recollection of the manuscript ; and springing from
the bed in the very moment of the maid's going away,
she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had
burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew
back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow.
She now plainly saw that she must not expect a manu-
script of equal length with the generality of what she had
shuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist
entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of
trifling size, and much less than she had supposed it to
be at first.
Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She
started at its import. Could it be possible, or did not her
senses play her false ? — An inventory of linen, in coarse
and modern characters, seemed all that was before her !
If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a
washing-bill in her hand. She seized another sheet, and
saw the same articles with little variation ; a third,
a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts,
stockings, cravats and waistcoats faced her in each.
Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expendi-
ture scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder,
shoe-string and breeches-ball. And the larger sheet,
which had inclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramp
line, " To poultice chesnut mare," — a farrier's bill ! Such
was the collection of papers, (left perhaps, as she could
then
( 173 )
then suppose, by the neghgence of a servant in the place
whence she had taken them,) which had filled her with
expectation and alarm, and robbed her of half her night's
rest ! She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the
adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom ? A corner
of it catching her eye as she lay, seemed to rise up in
judgment against her. Nothing could now be clearer
than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose
that a manuscript of many generations back could have
remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern,
so habitable ! — or that she should be the first to possess
the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was
open to all !
How could she have so imposed on herself? — Heaven
forbid that Henry Tilney should ever know her folly !
And it was in a great measure his own doing, for had
not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his
description of her adventures, she should never have felt
the smallest curiosity about it. This was the only comfort
that occurred. Impatient to get rid of those hateful
evidences of her folly, those detestable papers then
scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them
up as nearly as possible in the same shape as before,
returned them to the same spot within the cabinet, with
a very hearty wish that no untoward accident might ever
bring them forward again, to disgrace her even with
herself.
Why the locks should have been so difficult to open
however, was still something remarkable, for she could
now manage them with perfect ease. In this there was
surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the
flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility
of the door's having been at first unlocked, and of being
herself its fastener, darted into her head, and cost her
another blush.
She got away as soon as she could from a room in which
her conduct produced such unpleasant reflections, and
found her way with all speed to the breakfast-parlour.
( 174 )
as it had been pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the
evening before. Henry was alone in it ; and his imme-
diate hope of her having been undisturbed by the tempest,
with an arch reference to the character of the building
they inhabited, was rather distressing. For the world
would she not have her weakness suspected ; and yet,
unequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to
acknowledge that the wind had kept her awake a little.
"But we have a charming morning after it," she added,
desiring to get rid of the subject ; " and storms and
sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What
beautiful hyacinths ! — I have just learnt to love a hya-
cinth."
" And how might you learn ? — By accident or argu-
ment ? "
" Your sister taught me ; I cannot tell how. Mrs.
Allen used to take pains, year after year, to make me like
them ; but I never could, till I saw them the other day
in Milsom-street ; I am naturally indifferent about
flowers."
" But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better.
You have gained a new source of enjoyment, and it is
well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible.
Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in your sex,
as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you
to more frequent exercise than you would otherwise
take. And though the love of a hyacinth may be rather
domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once raised, but you
may in time come to love a rose ? "
" But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of
doors. The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air
is enough for me, and in fine weather I am out more than
half my time. — Mamma says, I am never within."
" At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have
learnt to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to
love is the thing ; and a teachableness of disposition in
a young lady is a great blessing. — Has my sister a pleasant
mode of instruction ? "
Catherine
( ITS )
• Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting
an answer, by the entrance of the General, whose smiUng
compHments announced a happy state of mind, but
whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not
advance her composure.
The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on
Catherine's notice when they were seated at table ; and,
luckily, it had been the General's choice. He was
enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it
to be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the
manufacture of his country ; and for his part, to his
uncritical palate, the tea was as well flavoured from the
clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden or Seve.
But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago.
The manufacture was much improved since that time ;
he had seen some beautiful specimens when last in town,
and had he not been perfectly without vanity of that kind,
might have been tempted to order a new set. He trusted,
however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of
selecting one — though not for himself. Catherine was
probably the only one of the party who did not under-
stand him.
Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston,
where business required and would keep him two or three
days. They all attended in the hall to see him mount
his horse, and immediately on re-entering the breakfast
room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of
catching another glimpse of his figure. " This is a some-
what heavy call upon your brother's fortitude," observed
the General to Eleanor. " Woodston will make but
a sombre appearance to-day."
" Is it a pretty place ? " asked Catherine.
*' What say you, Eleanor ? — speak your opinion, for
ladies can best tell the taste of ladies in regard to places
as well as men. I think it would be acknowledged by the
most impartial eye to have many recommendations.
The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-
east, with an excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect ;
the
( ne )
the walls surrounding which I built and stocked myself
about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. It is
a family living, Miss Morland ; and the property in the
place being chiefly my own, you may believe I take care
that it shall not be a bad one. Did Henry's income
depend solely on this living, he would not be ill provided
for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two
younger children, I should think any profession necessary
for him ; and certainly there are moments when we could
all wish him disengaged from every tie of business. But
though I may not exactly make converts of you young
ladies, I am sure your father. Miss Morland, would agree
with me in thinking it expedient to give every young man
some employment. The money is nothing, it is not an
object, but employment is the thing. Even Frederick,
my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as con-
siderable a landed property as any private man in the
county, has his profession."
The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to
his wishes. The silence of the lady proved it to be
unanswerable.
Something had been said the evening before of her
being shewn over the house, and he now offered himself
as her conductor ; and though Catherine had hoped to
explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it was
a proposal of too much happiness in itself, under any
circumstances, not to be gladly accepted ; for she had
been already eighteen hours in the Abbey, and had seen
only a few of its rooms. The netting-box, just leisurely
drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste, and she was
ready to attend him in a moment. " And when they had
gone over the house, he promised himself moreover the
pleasure of accompanying her into the shrubberies and
garden." She curtsied her acquiescence. " But perhaps
it might be more agreeable to her to make those her first
object. The weather was at present favourable, and at
this time of year the uncertainty was very great of its
continuing so. — Which would she prefer ? He was
equally
( 177 )
equally at her service. — ^Which did his daughter think
would most accord with her fair friend's wishes ? — But
he thought he could discern. — Yes, he certainly read in
Miss Morland's eyes a judicious desire of making use of
the present smiling weather. — But when did she judge
amiss ? — The Abbey would be always safe and dry. — He
yielded implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend
them in a moment." He left the room, and Catherine,
with a disappointed, anxious face, began to speak of her
unwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors
against his own inclination, under a mistaken idea of
pleasing her ; but she was stopt by Miss Tilney's saying,
with a little confusion, "I believe it will be wisest to take the
morning while it is so fine ; and do not be uneasy on my
father's account, he always walks out at this time of day."
Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be
understood. Why was Miss Tilney embarrassed ? Could
there be any unwillingness on the General's side to shew
her over the Abbey ? The proposal was his own. And
was not it odd that he should always take his walk
so early ? Neither her father nor Mr. Allen did so.
It was certainly very provoking. She was all impatience
to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about
the grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed ! —
but now she should not know what was picturesque when
she saw it. Such were her thoughts, but she kept them
to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.
She was struck however, beyond her expectation, by
the grandeur of the Abbey, as she saw it for the first time
from the lawn. The whole building enclosed a large
court ; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich in Gothic
ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder
was shut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant planta-
tions, and the steep woody hills rising behind to give it
shelter, were beautiful even in the leafless month of
March. Catherine had seen nothing to compare with it ;
and her feelings of delight were so strong, that without
waiting for any better authority, she boldly burst forth
1781.5 N in
( ns )
in wonder and praise. The General listened with assent-
ing gratitude ; and it seemed as if his own estimation of
Northanger had waited unfixed till that hour.
The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he
led the way to it across a small portion of the park.
The number of acres contained in this garden was such
as Catherine could not listen to without dismay, being
more than double the extent of all Mr. Allen's, as well as
her father's, including church-yard and orchard. The
walls seemed countless in number, endless in length ;
a village of hot-houses seemed to arise among them, and
a whole parish to be at work within the inclosure. The
General was flattered by her looks of surprize, which told
him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to tell him
in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all
equal to them before ; — and he then modestly owned that,
" without any ambition of that sort himself — without
any solicitude about it, — he did believe them to be
unrivalled in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it
was that. He loved a garden. Though careless enough
in most matters of eating, he loved good fruit — or if he
did not, his friends and children did. There were great
vexations however attending such a garden as his. The
utmost care could not always secure the most valuable
fruits. The pinery had yielded only one hundred in the
last year. Mr. Allen, he supposed, must feel these
inconveniences as well as himself."
" No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the
garden, and never went into it."
With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the
General wished he could do the same, for he never entered
his, without being vexed in some way or other, by its
falling short of his plan.
" How were Mr. Allen's succession-houses worked ? "
describing the nature of his own as they entered them.
" Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs.
Allen had the use of for her plants in winter, and there
was a fire in it now and then."
"He
( 179 )
" He is a happy man ! " said the General, with a look
of very happy contempt.
Having taken her into every division, and led her
under every wall, till she was heartily weary of seeing
and wondering, he suffered the girls at last to seize the
advantage of an outer door, and then expressing his wish
to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the
tea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their
walk, if Miss Morland were not tired. "But where are
you going, Eleanor ? — Why do you chuse that cold,
damp path to it ? Miss Morland will get wet. Our best
way is across the park."
" This is so favourite a walk of mine," said Miss Tilney,
" that I always think it the best and nearest way. But
perhaps it may be damp."
It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of
old Scotch firs ; and Catherine, struck by its gloomy
aspect, and eager to enter it, could not, even by the
General's disapprobation, be kept from stepping forward.
He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the
plea of health in vain, was too polite to make further
opposition. He excused himself however from attending
them : — " The rays of the sun were not too cheerful for
him, and he would meet them by another course." He
turned away ; and Catherine was shocked to find how
much her spirits were relieved by the separation. The
shock however being less real than the relief, offered it no
injury ; and she began to talk with easy gaiety of the
delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired.
" I am particularly fond of this spot," said her com-
panion, with a sigh. " It was my mother's favourite
walk."
Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in
the family before, and the interest excited by this tender
remembrance, shewed itself directly in her altered coun-
tenance, and in the attentive pause with which she waited
for something more.
" I used to walk here so often with her! " added Eleanor ;
N 2 " though
( 180 )
*' though I never loved it then, as I have loved it since.
At that time indeed I used to wonder at her choice.
But her memory endears it now."
*' And ought it not," reflected Catherine, " to endear it
to her husband ? Yet the General would not enter it."
Miss Tilney continuing silent, she ventured to say, " Her
death must have been a great affliction I "
" A great and increasing one," replied the other, in
a low voice. " I was only thirteen when it haj^pened ;
and though I felt my loss perhaps as strongly as one so
young could feel it, I did not, I could not then know what
a loss it was." She stopped for a moment, and then
added, with great firmness, *' I have no sister, you know
— and though Henry — ^though my brothers are very
affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I am
most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often
solitary."
"To be sure you must miss him very much."
" A mother would have been always present. A mother
would have been a constant friend ; her influence would
have been beyond all other."
" Was she a very charming woman ? Was she hand-
some ? Was there any picture of her in the Abbey ?
And why had she been so partial to that grove ? Was it
from dejection of spirits ? " — were questions now eagerly
poured forth ; — ^the first three received a ready affirmative,
the two others were passed by ; and Catherine's interest
in the deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented with every
question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness
in marriage, she felt persuaded. The General certainly
had been an unkind husband. He did not love her walk :
— could he therefore have loved her ? And besides, hand-
some as he was, there was a something in the turn of his
features which spoke his not having behaved well to her.
" Her picture, I suppose," blushing at the consummate
art of her own question, " hangs in your father's room ? "
*' No ; — it was intended for the drawing-room ; but my
father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some
time
( 181 )
time it had no place. Soon after her death I obtained it
for my own, and hung it in my bed-chamber — where
I shall be happy to shew it you ; — it is very like." — Here
was another proof. A portrait — very like — of a departed
wife, not valued by the husband ! — He must have been
dreadfully cruel to her !
Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the
nature of the feelings which, in spite of all his attentions,
he had previously excited ; and what had been terror and
dislike before, was now absolute aversion. Yes, aversion !
His cruelty to such a charming woman made him odious
to her. She had often read of such characters ; characters,
which Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and
overdrawn ; but here was proof positive of the contrary.
She had just settled this point, when the end of the
path brought them directly upon the General ; and in
spite of all her virtuous indignation, she found herself
again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and even
to smile when he smiled. Being no longer able however
to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon
began to walk with lassitude ; the General perceived it,
and with a concern for her health, which seemed to
reproach her for her opinion of him, was most urgent
for returning with his daughter to the house. He would
follow them in a quarter of an hour. Again they parted —
but Eleanor was called back in half a minute to receive
a strict charge against taking her friend round the Abbey
till his return. This second instance of his anxiety to
delay what she so much wished for, struck Catherine as
very remarkable.
CHAP-
( 182 )
CHAPTER VIII.
An hour passed away before the General came in,
spent, on the part of his young guest, in no very favourable
consideration of his character. — "This lengthened absence,
these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind at ease, or
a conscience void of reproach." — At length he appeared ;
and, whatever might have been the gloom of his medita-
tions, he could still smile with tliem. Miss Tilney, under-
standing in part her friend's curiosity to see the house,
soon revived the subject ; and her father being, contrary
to Catherine's expectations, unprovided with any pretence
for further delav, beyond that of stopping five minutes
to order refreshments to be in the room by their return,
was at last ready to escort them.
They set forward ; and, with a grandeur of air, a digni-
fied step, which caught the eye, but could not shake the
doubts of the well-read Catherine, he led the way across
the hall, through the common drawing-room and one
useless anti-chamber, into a room magnificent both in size
and furniture — the real drawing-room, used only with
company of consequence. — It was very noble — ^very
grand — ^very charming ! — was all that Catherine had to
say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned the
colour of the satin ; and all minuteness of praise, all
praise that had much meaning, was supplied by the
General : the costliness or elegance of any room's fitting-
up could be nothing to her ; she cared for no furniture of
a more modern date than the fifteenth century. When
the General had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close
examination of every well-known ornament, they pro-
ceeded into the library, an apartment, in its way, of equal
magnificence, exhibiting a collection of books, on which
an humble man might have looked with pride. — Catherine
heard, admired, and wondered with more genuine feeling
than before — ^gathered all that she could from this store-
house
( 183 )
house of knowledge, by running over the titles of half
a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of apart-
ments did not spring up with her wishes. — Large as was
the building, she had already visited the greatest part ;
though, on being told that, with the addition of the
kitchen, the six or seven rooms she had now seen sur-
rounded three sides of the court, she could scarcely
believe it, or overcome the suspicion of there being many
chambers secreted. It was some relief, however, that they
were to return to the rooms in common use, by passing
through a few of less importance, looking into the court,
which, with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate,
connected the different sides ; — and she was further
soothed in her progress, by being told, that she was
treading what had once been a cloister, having traces of
cells pointed out, and observing several doors, that were
neither opened nor explained to her ; — by finding herself
successively in a billiard-room, and in the General's
private apartment, without comprehending their con-
nexion, or being able to turn aright when she left them ;
and lastly, by j^assing through a dark little room, owning
Henry's authority, and strewed with his litter of books,
guns, and great coats.
From the dining-room of which, though already seen,
and always to be seen at five o'clock, the General could
not forego the pleasure of pacing out the length, for the
more certain information of Miss Morland, as to what
she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by
quick communication to the kitchen — the ancient kitchen
of the convent, rich in the massy walls and smoke of
former days, and in the stoves and hot closets of the
present. The General's improving hand had not loitered
here : every modern invention to facilitate the labour of
the cooks, had been adopted within this, their spacious
theatre ; and, when the genius of others had failed, his
own had often produced the perfection wanted. His
endowments of this spot alone might at any time have
placed him high among the benefactors of the convent.
With
( 184 )
With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity
of the Abbey ; the fourth side of the quadrangle having,
on account of its decaying state, been removed by the
General's father, and the present erected in its place.
All that was venerable ceased here. The new building
was not only new, but declared itself to be so ; intended
only for offices, and enclosed behind by stable-yards, no
uniformity of architecture had been thought necessary.
Catherine could have raved at the hand which had swept
away what must have been beyond the value of all the
rest, for the purposes of mere domestic economy ; and
would willingly have been spared the mortification of
a walk through scenes so fallen, had the General allowed
it ; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of
his offices ; and as he was convinced, that, to a mind like
Miss Morland's, a view of the accommodations and com^
forts, by which the labours of her inferiors were softened,
must always be gratifying, he should make no apology
for leading her on. They took a slight survey of all ;
and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by
their multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes
for which a few shapeless pantries and a comfortless
scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were here
carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and
roomy. The number of servants continually appearing,
did not strike her less than the number of their offices.
Wherever they went, some pattened girl stopped to
curtsey, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet
this was an Abbey ! — How inexpressibly different in these
domestic arrangements from such as she had read about
■ — from abbej^s and castles, in which, though certainly
larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house
was to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost.
How they could get through it all, had often amazed
Mrs. Allen ; and, when Catherine saw what was necessary
here, she began to be amazed herself.
They returned to the hall, that the chief stair-case
might be ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and
ornaments
( 185 )
ornaments of rich carving might be pointed out : having
gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction from
the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered
one on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth.
She was here shewn successively into three large bed-
chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely
and handsomely fitted up ; every thing that money and
taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apart-
ments, had been bestowed on these ; and, being furnished
within the last five years, they were perfect in all that
would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could
give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying the
last, the General, after slightly naming a few of the
distinguished characters, by whom they had at times been
honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine,
and ventured to hope, that henceforward some of their
earliest tenants might be " our friends from Fullerton."
She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted
the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly
disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her
family.
The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which
Miss Tilney, advancing, had thrown open, and passed
through, and seemed on the point of doing the same by
the first door to the left, in another long reach of gallery,
when the General, coming forwards, called her hastily,
and, as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding
whither she were going ? — And what was there more to
be seen ? — Had not Miss Morland already seen all that
could be worth her notice ? — And did she not suppose
her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so
much exercise ? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the
heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine,
who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond them,
a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symp-
toms of a winding stair-case, believed herself at last
within the reach of something worth her notice ; and felt,
as she unwilHngly paced back the gallery, that she would
rather
( 186 )
rather be allowed to examine that end of the house, than
see all the finery of all the rest. — The General's evident
desire of preventing such an examination was an addi-
tional stimulant. Something was certainly to be con-
cealed ; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or
twice, could not mislead her here ; and what that some-
thing was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney's, as they
followed the General at some distance down stairs, seemed
to point out : — " I was going to take you into what was
my mother's room — the room in which she died "
were all her words ; but few as they were, they conveyed
pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that
the General should shrink from the sight of such objects
as that room must contain ; a room in all probability
never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed,
which released his suffering wife, and left him to the
stings of conscience.
She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express
her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the
rest of that side of the house ; and Eleanor promised to
attend her there, whenever they should have a convenient
hour. Catherine understood her : — the General must be
watched from home, before that room could be entered.
" It remains as it was, I suppose ? " said she, in a tone
of feeling.
" Yes, entirely."
" And how long ago may it be that your mother died ? "
" She has been dead these nine years." And nine
years, Catherine knew was a trifle of time, compared with
what generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife,
before her room was put to rights.
" You were with her, I suppose, to the last ? "
" No," said Miss Tilney, sighing ; " I was unfortunately
from home. — Her illness was sudden and short ; and,
before I arrived it was all over."
' Catherine's blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions
which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be
possible ? — Could Henry's father ? And yet how many
were
( 187 )
were the examples to justify even the blackest suspicions !
< — And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked
with her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an
hour together in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes
and contracted brow, she felt secure from all possibility
of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Mon-
toni ! — What could more plainly speak the gloomy work-
ings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity,
in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt ? Unhappy
man ! — ^And the anxiousness of her spirits directed her
eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss
Tilney's notice. " My father," she whispered, " often
walks about the room in this way ; it is nothing unusual."
" So much the worse ! " thought Catherine ; such
ill-timed exercise was of a piece with the strange unsea-
sonableness of his morning walks, and boded nothing
good.
After an evening, the little variety and seeming length
of which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry's impor-
tance among them, she was heartily glad to be dismissed ;
though it was a look from the General not designed for
her observation which sent his daughter to the bell.
When the butler would have lit his master's candle,
however, he was forbidden. The latter was not going to
retire. " I have many pamphlets to finish," said he to
Catherine, '* before I can close my eyes ; and perhaps
may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours
after you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly
employed ? My eyes will be blinding for the good of
others ; and yours preparing by rest for future mischief."
But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent
compliment, could win Catherine from thinking, that
some very different object must occasion so serious
a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours, after
the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets, was not
very likely. There must be some deeper cause : some-
thing was to be done which could be done only while the
household slept ; and the probability that Mrs. Tilney
yet
( 188 )
yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from
the pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of
coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily followed.
Shocking as was the idea, it was at least better than
a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of
things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of
her reputed illness ; the absence of her daughter, and
probably of her other children, at the time — all favoured
the supposition of her imprisonment. — Its origin —
jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty — was yet to be
unravelled.
In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it
suddenly struck her as not unlikely, that she might that
morning have passed near the very spot of this unfor-
tunate woman's confinement — might have been within
a few paces of the cell in which she languished out her
days ; for what part of the Abbey could be more fitted
for the purpose than that which yet bore the traces of
monastic division ? In the high-arched passage, paved
with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar
awe, she well remembered the doors of which the General
had given no account. To what might not those doors
lead ? In support of the plausibility of this conjecture,
it further occurred to her, that the forbidden gallery, in
which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney,
must be, as certainly as her memory could guide her,
exactly over this suspected range of cells, and the stair-case
by the side of those apartments of which she had caught
a transient glimpse, communicating by some secret means
with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous
proceedings of her husband. Down that stair-case she
had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared
insensibility !
Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own
surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that she had
gone too far ; but they were supported by such appear-
ances as made their dismissal impossible.
The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the
guilty
( 189 )
guilty scene to be acting, being, according to her belief,
just opposite her own, it struck her that, if judiciously
watched, some rays of light from the General's lamp
might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed
to the prison of his wife ; and, twice before she stepped
into bed, she stole gently from her room to the corre-
sponding window in the gallery, to see if it appeared ;
but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early.
The various ascending noises convinced her that the
servants must still be up. Till midnight, she supposed
it would be in vain to watch ; but then, when the clock
had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not
quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more.
The clock struck twelve — and Catherine had been half
an hour asleep.
CHAP-
( 190 )
CHAPTER IX.
The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed
examination of the mysterious apartments. It was
Sunday, and the whole time between morning and after-
noon service was required by the General in exercise
abroad or eating cold meat at home ; and great as was
Catherine's curiosity, her courage was not equal to a wish
of exploring them after dinner, either by the fading light
of the sky between six and seven o'clock, or by the yet
more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous
lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by any thing
to interest her imagination beyond the sight of a very
elegant monument to the memory of Mrs. Tilney, which
immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye
was instantly caught and long retained ; and the perusal
of the highly- strained epitaph, in which every virtue
was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband, who
must have been in some way or other her destroyer,
affected her even to tears.
That the General, having erected such a monument,
should be able to face it, was not perhaps very strange,
and yet that he could sit so boldly collected within its
view, maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly
around, nay, that he should even enter the church,
seemed wonderful to Catherine. Not however that many
instances of beings equally hardened in guilt might not be
produced. She could remember dozens who had pei*-
severed in every possible vice, going on from crime to
crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any
feeling of humanity or remorse ;. till a violent death or
a religious retirement closed their black career. The
erection of the monument itself could not in the smallest
degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney's actual decease.
Were she even to descend into the family vault where
her
( 191 )
her ashes were supposed to slumber, were she to behold
the coffin in which they were said to be enclosed — what
could it avail in such a case ? Catherine had read too
much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which
a waxen figure might be introduced, and a supposititious
funeral carried on.
The succeeding morning promised something better.
The General's early walk, ill-timed as it was in every
other view, was favourable here ; and when she knew
him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss
Tilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was
ready to oblige her ; and Catherine reminding her as they
went of another promise, their first visit in consequence
was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It represented
a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive counte-
nance, justifying, so far, the expectations of its new
observer ; but they were not in every respect answered,
for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features,
air, complexion that should be the very counterpart, the
very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's ; — the only
portraits of which she had been in the habit of thinking,
bearing always an equal resemblance of mother and child.
A face once taken was taken for generations. But here
she was obliged to look and consider and study for
a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this
drawback, with much emotion ; and, but for a yet
stronger interest, would have left it unwillingly.
Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too
much for any endeavour at discourse ; she could only
look at her companion. Eleanor's countenance was
dejected, yet sedate ; and its composure spoke her
enured to all the gloomy objects to which they were
advancing. Again she passed through the folding- doors,
again her hand was upon the important lock, and Catherine,
hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former
with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure
of the General himself at the further end of the gallery,
stood before her ! The name of " Eleanor " at the same
moment,
( 192 )
moment, ih his loudest tone, resounded through the
building, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his
presence, and to Catherine terror upon terror. An
attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive
movement on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope
to have escaped his eye ; and when her friend, who with
an apologizing look darted hastily by her, had joined and
disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own room,
and, locking herself in, believed that she should never
have courage to go down again. She remained there at
least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply commiser-
ating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a sum-
mons herself from the angry General to attend him in his
own apartment. No summons however arrived ; and at
last, on seeing a carriage drive up to the Abbey, she was
emboldened to descend and meet him under the pro-
tection of visitors. The breakfast- room was gay with
company ; and she was named to them by the General,
as the friend of his daughter, in a complimentary style,
which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to make her
feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor,
with a command of countenance which did honour to her
concern for his character, taking an early occasion of
saying to her, " My father only wanted me to answer
a note," she began to hope that she had either been
unseen by the General, or that from some consideration
of policy she should be allowed to suppose herself so.
Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence,
after the company left them, and nothing occurred to
disturb it.
In the course of this morning's reflections, she came to
a resolution of making her next attempt on the forbidden
door alone. It would be much better in every respect that
Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To involve
her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into
an apartment which must wring her heart, could not be
the office of a friend. The General's utmost anger could
not be to herself what it might be to a daughter ; and,
besides.
( 193 )
besides, she thought the examination itself would be more
satisfactory if made without any companion. It would
be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from
which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto
happily exempt ; nor could she therefore, in her presence,
search for those proofs of the General's cruelty, which
however they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt
confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of
some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp.
Of the way to the apartment she was now perfectly
mistress ; and as she wished to get it over before Henry's
return, who was expected on the morrow, there was no
time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage high ;
at four o'clock, the sun was now two hours above the
horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress half
an hour earlier than usual.
It was done ; and Catherine found herself alone in the
gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no
time for thought ; she hurried on, slipped with the least
possible noise through the folding doors, and without
stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in
question. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily,
with no sullen sound that could alarm a human being.
On tip-toe she entered ; the room was before her ; but it
was some minutes before she could advance another step.
She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every
feature. — She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment,
an handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with an
housemaid's caYe, a bright Bath stove, mahogany ward-
robes and neatly-painted chairs, on which the warm
beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash
windows ! Catherine had expected to have her feelings
worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt
first seized them ; and a shortly succeeding ray of common
sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could
not be mistaken as to the room ; but how grossly mis-
taken in every thing else ! — in Miss Tilney's meaning, in
her own calculation ! This apartment, to which she had
178X5 Q given
( 194 )
given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be
one end of what the General's father had built. There
were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably
into dressing-closets ; but she had no inclination to open
either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last
walked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain
to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper ? No :
whatever might have been the General's crimes, he had
certainly too much wit to let them sue for detection.
She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in
her own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly ;
and she was on the point of retreating as softly as she had
entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly
tell where, made her pause and tremble. To be found
there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant ; but by
the General, (and he seemed always at hand when least
wanted,) much worse ! — She listened — the sound had
ceased ; and resolving not to lose a moment, she passed
through and closed the door. At that instant a door
underneath was hastily opened ; some one seemed with
swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which she
had yet to pass before she could gain the gallery. She
had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very
definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few
moments it gave Henry to her view. " Mr. Tilney ! " she
exclaimed in a voice of more than common astonishment.
He looked astonished too. " Good God ! " she con-
tinued, not attending to his address, " how came you
here ? — how came you up that staircase ? "
" How came I up that staircase ! " he replied, greatly
surprized. " Because it is my nearest way from the
stable-yard to my own chamber ; and why should I not
come up it ? "
Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could
say no more. He seemed to be looking in her coun-
tenance for that explanation which her lips did not
afford. She moved on towards the gallery. " And may
I not, in my turn," said he, as he pushed back the folding
doors,
( 195 )
doors, " ask how you came here ? — ^This passage is at
least as extraordinary a road from the breakfast- parlour
to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the
stables to mine."
" I have been," said Catherine, looking down, " to see
your mother's room."
" My mother's room ! — Is there any thing extraordinary
to be seen there ? "
" No, nothing at all. — I thought you did not mean to
come back till to-morrow."
" I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when
I went away ; but three hours ago I had the pleasure of
finding nothing to detain me. — You look pale. — I am
afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs.
Perhaps you did not know — you were not aware of their
leading from the offices in common use ? "
" No, I was not. — You have had a very fine day for
your ride."
" Very ; — and does Eleanor leave you to find your way
into all the rooms in the house by yourself ? "
" Oh ! no ; she shewed me over the greatest part on
Saturday — and we were coming here to these rooms —
but only — (dropping her voice) — ^your father was with us."
" And that prevented you ; " said Henry, earnestly
regarding her. — " Have you looked into all the rooms in
that passage ? "
" No, I only wanted to see Is not it very late ?
I must go and dress."
" It is only a quarter past four, (shewing his watch) and
you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to
prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger must be enough."
She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered her-
self to be detained, though her dread of further questions
made her, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to
leave him. They walked slowly up the gallery. " Have
you had any letter from Bath since I saw you ? "
" No, and I am very much surprized. Isabella pro-
mised so faithfully to write directly."
Q 3 " Promised
( 1C6 )
" Promised so faithfully ! — A faithful promise ! — That
puzzles me. — I have heard of a faithful performance.
But a faithful promise — the fidelity of promising ! It is
a power little worth knowing however, since it can deceive
and pain you. My mother's room is very commodious,
is it not ? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing
closets so well disposed ! It always strikes me as the most
comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder
that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you
to look at it, I suppose ? "
" No."
" It has been your own doing entirely ? " — Catherine
said nothing — After a short silence, during which he had
closely observed her, he added, " As there is nothing in
the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have pro-
ceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's
character, as described by Eleanor, which does honour
to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw ai^etter
woman. But it is not often that virtue cajn boast an
interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits
of a person never known, do not often create that kind
of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt
a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her
a great deal ? "
" Yes, a great deal. That is — no, not much, but what
she did say, was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly, "
(slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken,) " and you — •
none of you being at home — and your father, I thought —
perhaps had not been very fond of her."
" And from these circumstances," he replied, (his quick
eye fixed on her's,) " you infer perhaps the probability of
some negligence — some — (involuntarily she shook her
head) — or it may be — of something still less pardonable."
She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had
ever done before. " My mother's illness," he continued,
" the seizure which ended in her death was sudden. The
malady itself, one from which she had often suffered,
a bilious fever — its cause therefore constitutional. On the
third
( 197 )
third day, in short as soon as she could be prevailed on,
a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one
in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon
his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the
next day, and remained in almost constant attendance
for four- and- twenty hours. On the fifth day she died.
During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (we
were both at home) saw her repeatedly ; and from our
own observation can bear witness to her having received
every possible attention which could spring from the
affection of those about her, or which her situation in
life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at
such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her
coffin."
" But your father," said Catherine, " was he afflicted ? "
" For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing
him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded,
as well as it was possible for him to — We have not all,
you know, the same tenderness of disposition — and I will
not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not
often have had much to bear, but though his temper
injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her
was sincere ; and, if not permanently, he was truly
afflicted by her death."
" I am very glad of it," said Catherine, " it would have
been very shocking ! "
" If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise
of such horror as I have hardly words to ^Dear Miss
Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions
you have entertained. What have you been judging
from ? Remember the country and the age in which we
live. Remember that we are English, that we are
Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own
sense of the probable, your own observation of what is
passing around you — ^Does our education prepare us for
such atrocities ? Do our laws connive at them ? Could
they be perpetrated without being known, in a country
like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such
a footing;
( 198 )
a footing ; where every man is surrounded by a neigh-
bourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and news-
papers lay every thing open ? Dearest Miss Morland,
what ideas have you been admitting ? "
They had reached the end of the gallery ; and with
tears of shame she ran off to her own room.
CHAP-
( 199 )
CHAPTER X.
The visions of romance were over. Catherine was
completely awakened. Henry's address, short as it had
been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extra-
vagance of her late fancies than all their several disap-
pointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled.
Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself
that she was sunk — but with Henry, Her folly, which
now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he
must despise her for ever. The liberty which her imagina-
tion had dared to take with the character of his father,
could he ever forgive it ? The absurdity of her curiosity
and her fears, could they ever be forgotten ? She hated
herself more than she could express. He had — she
thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning,
shewn something like affection for her. — But now — in
short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about
half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with
a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible
answer to Eleanor's inquiry, if she was well. The formid-
able Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only
difference in his behaviour to her, was that he paid her
rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never
wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was aware of it.
The evening wore away with no abatement of this
soothing politeness ; and her spirits were gradually raised
to a modest tranquillity. She did not learn either to
forget or defend the past ; but she learned to hope that it
would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost
her Henry's entire regard. Her thoughts being still
chiefly fixed on what she had with such causeless terror
felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer, than that
it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion, each
trifling circumstance receiving importance from an
imagination
( 200 )
imagination resolved on alarm, and every thing forced to
bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she entered
the Abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She
remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a
knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation
had been created, the mischief settled long before her
quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be
traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she
had there indulged.
Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and
charming even as were the works of all her imitators, it
was not in them perhaps that human nature, at least in
the midland counties of England, was to be looked for.
Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and
their vices, they might give a faithful delineation ; and
Italy, Switzerland, and the South of France, might be as
fruitful in horrors as they were there represented. Cathe-
rine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even
of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern
and western extremities. But in the central part of
England there was surely some security for the existence
even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land, and the
manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants
were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions
to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among
the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed
characters. There, such as were not as spotless as an
angel, might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in
England it was not so ; among the English, she believed,
in their hearts and habits, there was a general though
unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction,
she would not be surprized if even in Henry and Eleanor
Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear ;
and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge
some actual specks in the character of their father, who,
though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which
she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe,
upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.
Her
( ^01 )
Her mind made up on these several points, and her
resolution formed, of always judging and acting in future
with the greatest good sense, she had nothing to do but
to forgive herself and be happier than ever ; and the
lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible
gradations in the course of another day. Henry's
astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct, in never
alluding in the slightest way to what had passed, was of
the greatest assistance to her ; and sooner than she could
have supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress,
her spirits became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as
heretofore, of continual improvement by any thing he
said. There were still some subjects indeed, under which
she believed they must always tremble ; — the mention of
a chest or a cabinet, for instance — and she did not love
the sight of japan in any shape : but even she could
allow, that an occasional memento of past folly, however
painful, might not be without use.
The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to
the alarms of romance. Her desire of hearing from
Isabella grew every day greater. She was quite impatient
to know how the Bath world went on, and how the Rooms
were attended ; and especially was she anxious to be
assured of Isabella's having matched some fine netting-
cotton, on which she had left her intent ; and of her
continuing on the best terms with James. Her only
dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella.
James had protested against writing to her till his return
to Oxford ; and Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of
a letter till she had got back to Fullerton. — But Isabella
had promised and promised again ; and when she pro-
mised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it 1
this made it so particularly strange !
For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over
the repetition of a disappointment, which each morning
became more severe : but, on the tenth, when she entered
the breakfast-room, her first object was a letter, held out
by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartily
as
( 202 )
as if he had written it himself. " 'Tis only from James,
however," as she looked at the direction. She opened
it ; it was from Oxford ; and to this purpose ; —
" Dear Catherine,
" Though, God knows, with little inclination for
writing, I think it my duty to tell you, that every thing
is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me. — I left her and
Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall not
enter into particulars, they would only pain you more.
You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know
where lies the blame ; and I hope will acquit your brother
of every thing but the folly of too easily thinking his
affection returned. Thank God ! I am • undeceived in
time ! But it is a heavy blow ! — After my father's con-
sent had been so kindly given — but no more of this. She
has made me miserable for ever ! Let me soon hear from
you, dear Catherine ; you are my only friend ; your love
I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may
be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement
known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced. — '
Poor Thorpe is in town : I dread the sight of him ; his
honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him
and my father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all ;
till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she declared
herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at
my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with
it ; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved,
I was that man. I cannot understand even now what
she would be at. for there could be no need of my being
played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted at
last by mutual consent — happy for me had we never
met ! I can never expect to know such another woman !
Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart.
" Believe me," &c.
Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden
change of countenance, and short exclamations of sorrow-
ing wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news ;
and
( 203 )
and Henry, earnestly watching her through the whole
letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began.
He was prevented, however, from even looking his
surprize by his father's entrance. They went to breakfast
directly ; but Catherine could hardly eat any thing.
Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she
sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her
lap, and then in her pocket ; and she looked as if she
knew not what she did. The General, between his cocoa
and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her ;
but to the other two her distress was equally visible.
As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away
to her own room ; but the house-maids were busy in it,
and she was obliged to come down again. She turned
into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and
Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that
moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back,
trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle violence,
forced to return ; and the others withdrew, after Eleanor
had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or
comfort to her.
After half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflec-
tion, Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends ;
but whether she should make her distress known to them
was another consideration. Perhaps, if particularly
questioned, she might just give an idea — just distantly
hint at it — but not more. To expose a friend, such
a friend as Isabella had been to her — and then their own
brother so closely concerned in it ! — She believed she
must wave the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor
were by themselves in the breakfast-room ; and each,
as she entered it, looked at her anxiously. Catherine
took her place at the table, and, after a short silence,
Eleanor said, " No bad news from Fullerton, I hope ?
Mr. and Mrs. Morland — your brothers and sisters — I hope
they are none of them ill ? "
" No, I thank you," (sighing as she spoke,) " they are
all very well. My letter was from my brother at Oxford.'*
Nothing
( 201 )
Nothing further Avas said for a few minutes ; and then
speaking through her tears, she added, " I do not think
I shall ever wish for a letter again ! "
" I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had
just opened ; " if I had suspected the letter of containing
any thing unwelcome, I should have given it with very
different feelings."
" It contained something worse than any body could
suppose ! — Poor James is so unhappy ! — ^You will soon
know why."
" To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,"
replied Henry, warmly, " must be a comfort to him under
any distress."
" I have one favour to beg," said Catherine, shortly
afterwards, in an agitated manner, " that, if your brother
should be coming here, you will give me notice of it, that
I may go away."
" Our brother !— Frederick ! "
" Yes ; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you
so soon, but something has happened that would make it
very dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain
Tilney."
Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with
increasing astonishment ; but Henry began to suspect
the truth, and something, in which Miss Thorpe's name
was included, passed his lips.
" How quick you are ! " cried Catherine : " you have
guessed it, I declare ! — And yet, when we talked about
it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so. Isabella —
no wonder now I have not heard from her — Isabella has
deserted my brother, and is to marry your's ! Could you
have believed there had been such inconstancy and
fickleness, and every thing that is bad in the world ? "
" I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are mis-
informed. I hope he has not had any material share in
bringing on Mr. Morland's disappointment. His marrying
Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you must be
deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland —
sorry
( 205 )
sorry that any one you love should be unhappy ; but my
surprize would be greater at Frederick's marrying her,
than at any other part of the story."
"It is very true, however ; you shall read James's
letter yourself. — Stay there is one part " recol-
lecting with a blush the last line.
" Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages
which concern my brother ? "
" No, read it yourself," cried Catherine, whose second
thoughts were clearer. " I do not know what I was
thinking of," (blushing again that she had blushed
before,) — " James only means to give me good advice."
He gladly received the letter ; and, having read it
through, with close attention, returned it saying, " Well,
if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorry for it.
Frederick will not be the first man who has chosen a wife
with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy
his situation, either as a lover or a son."
Miss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read the
letter likewise ; and, having expressed also her concern
and surprize, began to inquire into Miss Thorpe's con-
nexions and fortune.
" Her mother is a very good sort of woman," was
Catherine's answer.
" What was her father ? "
" A lawyer, I believe. — They live at Putney."
" Are they a wealthy family ? "
" No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any
fortune at all ; but that will not signify in your family. —
Your father is so very liberal ! He told me the other
day, that he only valued money as it allowed him to
promote the happiness of his children." The brother
and sister looked at each other. " But," said Eleanor,
after a short pause, " would it be to promote his happiness,
to enable him to marry such a girl ? — She must be an
unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother
so. — And how strange an infatuation on Frederick's
side ! A girl who, before his eyes, is violating an engage-
ment
( 206 )
ment voluntarily entered into with another man ! Is
not it inconceivable, Henry ? Frederick too, who always
wore his heart so proudly ! who found no woman good
enough to be loved ! "
" That is the most unpromising circumstance, the
strongest presumption against him. When I think of his
past declarations, I give him up. — Moreover, I have too
good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence, to suppose
that she would part with one gentleman before the other
was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed ! He
is a deceased man — defunct in understanding. Prepare
for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law
as you must delight in ! — Open, candid, artless, guileless,
with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,
and knowing no disguise."
" Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in," said
Eleanor, with a smile.
" But perhaps," observed Catherine, " though she has
behaved so ill by our family, she may behave better by
your's. Now she has really got the man she likes, she
may be constant."
" Indeed I am afraid she will," replied Henry ; " I am
afraid she will be very constant, unless a baronet should
come in her way ; that is Frederick's only chance. — I will
get the Bath paper, and look over the arrivals."
" You think it is all for ambition then ? — And, upon
my word, there are some things that seem very like it.
I cannot forget, that, when she first knew what my
father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed
that it was not more. I never was so deceived in any
one's character in my life before."
" Among all the great variety that you have kno^vn
and studied."
" My own disappointment and loss in her is very great ;
but, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever
recover it."
" Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at
present ; but we must not, in our concern for his suffer-
ings.
( 207 )
ings, undervalue your's. You feel, I suppose, that, in
losing Isabella, you lose half yourself : you feel a void in
your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is
becoming irksome ; and as for the amusements in which
you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of them
without her is abhorrent. You would not, for instance,
now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have
no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve ;
on whose regard you can place dependence ; or whose
counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on. You feel
all this ? "
*' No," said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection,
" I do not — ought I ? To say the truth, though I am
hurt and grieved, that I cannot still love her, that I am
never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again,
I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would
have thought."
" You feel, as you always do, what is most to the
credit of human nature. — Such feelings ought to be
investigated, that they may know themselves."
Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits
so very much relieved by this conversation, that she
could not regret her being led on, though so unaccount-
ably, to mention the circumstance which had produced it.
CHAP-
CHAPTER XI.
From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed
by the three young people ; and Catherine found, with
some surprize, that her two young friends were perfectly
agreed in considering Isabella's want of consequence and
fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the way
of her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the
General would, upon this ground alone, independent of
the objection that might be raised against her character,
oppose the connexion, turned her feelings moreover with
some alarm towards herself. She was as insignificant,
and perhaps as portionless as Isabella ; and if the heir
of the Tilney property had not grandeur and wealth
enough in himself, at what point of interest were the
demands of his younger brother to rest ? The very
painful reflections to which this thought led, could only
be dispersed by a dependence on the effect of that parti-
cular partiality, which, as she was given to understand
by his words as well as his actions, she had from the
first been so fortunate as to excite in the General ; and
by a recollection of some most generous and disinterested
sentiments on the subject of money, which she had more
than once heard him utter, and which tempted her to
think his disposition in such matters misunderstood by
his children.
They were so fully convinced, however, that their
brother would not have the courage to apply in person
for his father's consent, and so repeatedly assured her
that he had never in his life been less likely to come to
Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered
her mind to be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden
removal of her own. But as it was not to be supposed
that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his application,
would give his father any just idea of Isabella's conduct,
it occijtrred to her as highly expedient that Henry should
lay
( 209 )
lay the whole business before him as it really was, enabling
the General by that means to form a cool and impartial
opinion, and prepare his objections on a fairer ground
than inequality of situations. She proposed it to him
accordingly ; but he did not catch at the measure so
eagerly as she had expected. " No," said he, " my
father's hands need not be strengthened, and Frederick's
confession of folly need not be forestalled. He must tell
his own story."
" But he will tell only half of it."
" A quarter would be enough."
A day or two passed away and brought no tidings of
Captain Tilney. His brother and sister knew not what
to think. Sometimes it appeared to them as if his silence
would be the natural result of the suspected engagement,
and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it.
The General, meanwhile, though offended every morning
by Frederick's remissness in writing, was free from any
real anxiety about him ; and had no more pressing
solicitude than that of making Miss Morland's time at
Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his
uneasiness on this head, feared the sameness of every
day's society and employments would disgust her with
the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in the
country, talked every now and then of having a large
party to dinner, and once or twice began even to calculate
the number of young dancing people in the neighbour-
hood. But then it was such a dead time of year, no
wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the
country. And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry
one morning, that when he next went to Woodston, they
would take him by surprize there some day or other, and
eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly honoured
and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with
the scheme. " And when do you think, sir, I may look
forward to this pleasure ? — I must be at Woodston on
Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall probably
be obliged to stay two or three days."
1781.5 p "Well,
( 210 )
" Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those
days. There is no need to fix. You are not to put
yourself at all out of your way. Whatever you may
happen to have in the house will be enough. I think
I can answer for the young ladies making allowance for
a bachelor's table. Let me see ; Monday will be a busy
day with you, we will not come on Monday ; and Tuesday
will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor from
Brockham with his report in the morning ; and after-
wards I cannot in decency fail attending the club. I really
could not face my acquaintance if I staid away now ;
for, as I am known to be in the country, it would be taken
exceedingly amiss ; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland,
never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small
sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it. They are
a set of very worthy men. They have half a buck from
Northanger twice a year ; and I dine with them whenever
I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the
question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may
expect us ; and we shall be with you early, that we may
have time to look about us. Two hours and three
quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose ; we shall
be in the carriage by ten ; so, about a quarter before one
on Wednesday, you may look for us."
A ball itself could not have been more welcome to
Catherine than this little excursion, so strong was her
desire to be acquainted with Woodston ; and her heart
was still bounding with joy, when Henry, about an hour
afterwards, came booted and great coated into the room
where she and Eleanor were sitting, and said, " I am
come, young ladies, in a very moralizing strain, to observe
that our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for,
and that we often purchase them at a great disadvantage,
giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the
future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself,
at this present hour. Because I am to hope for
the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on Wednes-
day, which bad weather, or twenty other causes may
prevent,
( 211 )
prevent, I must go away directly, two days before
I intended it."
" Go away ! " said Catherine, with a very long face ;
" and why ? "
" Why ! — How can you ask the question ? — Because
no time is to be lost in frightening my old housekeeper
out of her wits, — because I must go and prepare a dinner
for you to be sure."
" Oh ! not seriously ! "
" Aye, and sadly too — ^for I had much rather stay."
" But how can you think of such a thing, after what
the General said ? when he so particularly desired you not
to give yourself any trouble, because any thing would do."
Henry only smiled. " I am sure it is quite unnecessary
upon your sister's account and mine. You must know
it to be so ; and the General made such a point of your
providing nothing extraordinary : — besides, if he had not
said half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent
dinner at home, that sitting down to a middling one for
one day could not signify."
" I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my
uwn. Good bye. As to-morrow is Sunday, Eleanor,
I shall not return."
He went ; and, it being at any time a much simpler
operation to Catherine to doubt her own judgment than
Henry's, she was very soon obliged to give him credit
for being right, however disagreeable to her his going.
But the inexplicability of the General's conduct dwelt
much on her thoughts. That he was very particular in
his eating, she had, by her own unassisted observation,
already discovered ; but why he should say one thing so
positively, and mean another all the while, was most
unaccountable ! How were people, at that rate, to be
understood ? Who but Henry could have been aware of
what his father was at ?
From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now
to be without Henry. This was the sad finale of every
reflection : — and Captain Tilney's letter would certainly
p 2 come
( 212 )
come in his absence ; and Wednesday she was very sure
would be wet. The past, present, and future, were all
equally in gloom. Her brother so unhappy, and her loss
in Isabella so great ; and Eleanor's spirits always affected
by Henry's absence ! What was there to interest or
amuse her ? She was tired of the woods and the shrub-
beries— always so smooth and so dry ; and the Abbey in
itself was no more to her now than any other house.
The painful remembrance of the folly it had helped to
nourish and perfect, was the only emotion which could
spring from a consideration of the building. What a
revolution in her ideas ! she, who had so longed to be
in an abbey ! Now, there was nothing so charming to her
imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-
connected Parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better :
Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had
none. — If Wednesday should ever come !
It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably
looked for. It came — it was fine — and Catherine trod
on air. By ten o'clock, the chaise-and-four conveyed
the trio from the Abbey ; and, after an agreeable drive
of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large
and populous village, in a situation not unpleasant.
Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it,
as the General seemed to think an apology necessary for
the flatness of the country, and the size of the village ;
but in her heart she preferred it to any place she had
ever been at, and looked with great admiration at
every neat house above the rank of a cottage, and at
all the little chandler's shops which they passed. At the
further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged from
the rest of it, stood the Parsonage, a new-built substantial
stone house, with its semi-circular sweep and green gates ;
and, as they drove up to the door, Henry, with the friends
of his solitude, a large Newfoundland puppy and two or
three terriers, was ready to receive and make much of
them.
Catherine's mind was too full, as she entered the house,
for
( 213 )
for her either to observe or to say a great deal ; and, till
called on by the General for her opinion of it, she had
very little idea of the room in which she was sitting.
Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment
that it was the most comfortable room in the world ; but
she was too guarded to say so, and the coldness of her
praise disappointed him.
" We are not calling it a good house," said he. — " We
are not comparing it with Fullerton and Northanger —
We are considering it as a mere Parsonage, small and
confined, we allow, but decent perhaps, and habitable ;
and altogether not inferior to the generality ;■ — or, in
other words, I believe there are few country parsonages
in England half so good. It may admit of improvement,
however. Far be it from me to say otherwise ; and any
thing in reason — a bow thrown out, perhaps — ^though,
between ourselves, if there is one thing more than another
my aversion, it is a patched-on bow."
Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to under-
stand or be pained by it ; and other subjects being
studiously brought forward and supported by Henry,
at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was
introduced by his servant, the General was shortly
restored to his complacency, and Catherine to all her
usual ease of spirits.
The room in question was of a commodious, well-
proportioned size, and handsomely fitted up as a dining
parlour ; and on their quitting it to walk round the
grounds, she was shewn, first into a smaller apartment,
belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made
unusually tidy on the occasion ; and afterwards into
what was to be the drawing-room, with the appearance of
which, though unfurnished, Catherine was delighted
enough even to satisfy the General. It was a prettily-
shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground, and
the view from them pleasant, though only over green
meadows ; and she expressed her admiration at the
moment with all the honest simplicity with which she
felt
( 214 )
felt it. " Oh ! why do not you fit up this room, Mr.
Tilney ? What a pity not to have it fitted up ! It is
the prettiest room I ever saw ; — it is the prettiest room
in the world ! "
" I trust," said the (General, with a most satisfied smile,
*' that it will very speedily be furnished : it waits only
for a lady's taste ! "
" Well, if it was my house, I should never sit any where
else. Oh ! what a sweet little cottage there is among the
trees — apple trees too ! It is the prettiest cottage ! " —
" You like it — ^you approve it as an object ; — it is
enough. Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken to
about it. The cottage remains,"
Such a compliment recalled all Catherine's conscious-
ness, and silenced her directly ; and, though pointedly
applied to by the General for her choice of the prevailing
colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like an opinion
on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence
of fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use
in dissipating these embarrassing associations ; and,
having reached the ornamental part of the premises,
consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on which
Henry's genius had begun to act about half a year ago,
she was sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than
any pleasure-ground she had ever been in before, though
there was not a shrub in it higher than the green bench
in the corner.
A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the
\allage, with a visit to the stables to examine some
improvements, and a charming game of play with a litter
of puppies just able to roll about, brought them to four
o'clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be
three. At four they were to dine, and at six to set off on
their return. Never had any day passed so quickly 1
She could not but observ^e that the abundance of the
dinner did not seem to create the smallest astonishment
in the General ; nay, that he was even looking at the
side-table for cold meat which was not there. His son
and
( 215 )
and daughter's observations were of a dijfferent kind.
They had seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table
but his own ; and never before known him so little dis-
concerted by the melted butter's being oiled.
At six o'clock, the General having taken his coffee,
the carriage again received them ; and so gratifying had
been the tenor of his conduct throughout the whole visit,
so well assured was her mind on the subject of his expecta-
tions, that, could she have felt equally confident of the
wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston
with little anxiety as to the How or the When she might
return to it.
CHAP-
( 216 )
CHAPTER XII.
The next morning brought the following very unex-
pected letter from Isabella : —
Bath, April
My dearest Catherine,
I received your two kind letters with the greatest
delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not
answering them sooner. I really am quite ashamed of
my idleness ; but in this horrid place one can find time
for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to begin
a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but
have always been prevented by some silly trifler or other.
Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home.
Thank God ! we leave this vile place to-morrow. Since
you went away, I have had no pleasure in it — ^the dust is
beyond any thing ; and every body one cares for is gone.
I believe if I could see you I should not mind the rest,
for you are dearer to me than any body can conceive.
I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having
heard from him since he went to Oxford ; and am fearful
of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all
right : — he is the only man I ever did or could love, and
I trust you will convince him of it. The spring fashions
are partly down ; and the hats the most frightful you can
imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am
afraid you never think of me. I will not say all that
I could of the family you are with, because I would not
be ungenerous, or set you against those you esteem ;
but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young
men never know their minds two days together. I rejoice
to say, that the young man whom, of all others, I par-
ticularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this
description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you
may
( 217 )
may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and
tease me, before you went away. Afterwards he got
worse, and became quite my shadow. Many girls might
have been taken in, for never were such attentions ; but
I knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his
regiment two days ago, and I trust I shall never be
plagued with him again. He is the greatest coxcomb I
ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two
days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis :
I pitied his taste, but took no notice of him. The last
time we met was in Bath-street, and I turned directly
into a shop that he might not speak to me ; — I would
not even look at him. He went into the Pump-room
aftenvards ; but I would not have followed him for all
the world. Such a contrast between him and your
brother ! — pray send me some news of the latter — I am
quite unhappy about him, he seemed so uncomfortable
when he went away, with a cold, or something that
affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but
have mislaid his direction ; and, as I hinted above, am
afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray
explain every thing to his satisfaction ; or, if he still
harbours any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a call
at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights.
I have not been to the Rooms this age, nor to the Play,
except going in last night with the Hodges 's, for a frolic,
at half-price : they teased me into it ; and I was deter-
mined they should not say I shut myself up because
Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells,
and they pretended to be quite surprized to see me out.
I knew their spite : — at one time they could not be civil
to me, but now they are all friendship ; but I am not
such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have
a pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried
to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before
at the Concert, but made wretched work of it — it happened
to become my odd face I believe, at least Tilney told me
so at the time, and said every eye was upon me ; but he
is the
( 218 )
Is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing
but purple now : I know I look hideous in it, but no
matter — it is your dear brother's favourite colour. Lose
no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to
him and to me,
Who ever am, &c.
Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even
upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and
falsehood, struck her from the very first. She was
ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved
her. Her professions of attachment were now as dis-
gusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands
impudent. " Write to James on her behalf ! — No,
James should never hear Isabella's name mentioned by
her again."
On Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known
to him and Eleanor their brother's safety, congratulating
them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most
material passages of her letter with strong indignation.
When she had finished it, — " So much for Isabella," she
cried, " and for all our intimacy ! She must think me
an idiot, or she could not have written so ; but perhaps
this has served to make her character better known to
me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about.
She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered.
I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James
or for me, and I wish I had never known her."
*' It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry.
" There is but one thing that I cannot understand.
I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which
have not succeeded ; but I do not understand what
Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should
he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with
my brother, and then fly off himself ? "
" I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such
as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as
well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that,
having
( 219 )
liaving a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself.
If the ejfect of his behaviour does not justify him with you,
we had better not seek after the cause."
" Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about
her ? "
" I am persuaded that he never did."
" And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake ? "
Henry bowed his assent.
" Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all.
Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him
at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done,
because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose.
But, suppose he had made her very much in love with
him ? "
" But we must first suppose Isabella to have had
a heart to lose, — consequently to have been a very
different creature ; and, in that case, she would have
met with very different treatment."
" It is very right that you should stand by your
brother."
" And if you would stand by your'^s, you would not be
much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe.
But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general
integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reason-
ings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."
Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness.
Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry
made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering
Isabella's letter ; and tried to think no more of it.
CHAP-
( 220 )
CHAPTER XIII.
Soon after this, the General found himself obliged to
go to London for a week ; and he left Northanger earnestly
regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an
hour of Miss Morland's company, and anxiously recom-
mending the study of her comfort and amusement to his
children as their chief object in his absence. His depar-
ture gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that
a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with
which their time now passed, every employment volun-
tary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease
and good-humour, walking where they liked and when
they liked, their hours, pleasures and fatigues at their
own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the
restraint which the General's presence had imposed, and
most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such
ease and such delights made her love the place and the
people more and more every day ; and had it not been
for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the
one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved
by the other, she would at each moment of each day
have been perfectly happy ; but she was now in the fourth
week of her visit ; before the General came home, the
fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem
an intrusion if she staid much longer. This was a painful
consideration whenever it occurred ; and eager to get rid
of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to
speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away,
and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her
proposal might be taken.
Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might
feel it difficult to bring forward so unpleasant a subject,
she took the first opportunity of being suddenly alone
with Eleanor, and of Eleanor's being in the middle of
a speech
( m )
a speech about something very different, to start forth
her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked
and declared herself much concerned. She had " hoped
for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time —
had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose that
a much longer visit had been promised — and could not
but think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the
pleasure it was to her to have her there, they would be
too generous to hasten her return." — Catherine explained.
— " Oh ! as to tfiat, papa and mamma were in no hurry
at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be
satisfied."
" Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to
leave them ? "
" Oh ! because she had been there so long."
" Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no
farther. If you think it long — "
" Oh ! no, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure,
I could stay with you as long again." — And it was directly
settled that, till she had, her leaving them was not even
to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness so
pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise
weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor's
manner in pressing her to stay, and Henry's gratified
look on being told that her stay was determined, were
such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left
her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can
never do comfortably without. She did — almost always
— believe that Henry loved her, and quite always that
his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong
to them ; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties
were merely sportive irritations.
I Henry was not able to obey his father's injunction of
emaining wholly at Northanger in attendance on the
idies,. during his absence in London ; the engagements
f his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on
Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now
what it had been while the General was at home ; it
lessened
( 222 )
lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort ;
and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and improving
in intimacy, found themselves so well-sufficient for the
time to themselves, that it was eleven o'clock, rather
a late hour at the Abbey, before they quitted the supper-
room on the day of Henry's departure. They had just
reached the head of the stairs, when it seemed, as far as
the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge,
that a carriage was driving up to the door, and the next
moment confirmed the idea by the loud noise of the
house-bell. After the first perturbation of surprize had
passed away, in a " Good Heaven ! what can be the
matter ? " it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be
her eldest brother, whose arrival was often as sudden,
if not quite so unseasonable, and accordingly she hurried
down to welcome him.
Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her
mind as well as she could, to a further acquaintance with
Captain Tilney, and comforting herself under the unplea-
sant impression his conduct had given her, and the
persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to
approve of her, that at least they should not meet under
such circumstances as would make their meeting mate-
rially painful. She trusted he would never speak of Miss
Thorpe ; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed
of the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it ;
and as long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided,
she thought she could behave to him very civilly. In
such considerations time passed away, and it was cer-
tainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to
see him, and have so much to say, for half an hour was
almost gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.
At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step
in the gallery, and listened for its continuance ; but all
was silent. Scarcely, however, had she convicted her
fancy of error, when the noise of something moving close
to her door made her start ; it seemed as if some one was
touching the very doorway — -and in another moment
a slight
( 223 )
a slight motion of the lock proved that some hand must
be on it. She trembled a little at the idea of any one's
approaching so cautiously ; but resolving not to be again
overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by
a raised imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and
opened the door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there.
Catherine's spirits however were tranquillized but for an
instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and her manner
greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come
in, it seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still
greater to speak when there. Catherine, supposing somiC
uneasiness on Captain Tilney's account, could only express
her concern by silent attention ; obliged her to be seated,
rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over
her with affectionate solicitude. " My dear Catherine,
you must not — you must not indeed — " were Eleanor's
first connected words. " I am quite well. This kindness
distracts me — I cannot bear it — I come to you on such an
errand ! "
" Errand !— to me ! "
" How shall I tell you !— Oh ! how shall I tell you ! "
A new idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and
turning as pale as her friend, she exclaimed, " 'Tis a mes-
senger from Woodston ! "
" You are mistaken, indeed," returned Eleanor, looking
at her most compassionately — " it is no one from Wood-
ston. It is my father himself." Her voice faltered, and
her eyes were turned to the ground as she mentioned his
name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to
make Catherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she
hardly supposed there were any thing worse to be told.
She said nothing ; and Eleanor endeavouring to collect
herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes still cast
down, soon went on. " You are too good, I am sure,
to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to
perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger.
After what has so lately passed, so lately been settled
between us — how joyfully, how thankfully on my side ! — •
as
( 224 )
as to your continuing here as I hoped for many, many
weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not
to be accepted — and that the happiness your company
has hitherto given us is to be repaid by but I must
not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are
to part. My father has recollected an engagement that
takes our whole family away on Monday. We are going
to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight.
Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I can-
not attempt either."
" My dear Eleanor," cried Catherine, suppressing her
feelings as well as she could, " do not be so distressed.
A second engagement must give way to a first. I am
very, very sorry we are to part — so soon, and so suddenly
too ; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can
finish my visit here you know at any time ; or I hope you
will come to me. Can you, when you return from this
lord's, come to FuUerton ? "
" It will not be in my power, Catherine."
" Come when you can, then." —
Eleanor made no answer ; and Catherine's thoughts
recurring to something more directly interesting, she
added, thinking aloud, " Monday — so soon as Monday ; —
and you all go. Well, I am certain of 1 shall be able
to take leave however. I need not go till just before you
do, you know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go
on Monday very well. My father and mother's having
no notice of it is of very little consequence. The General
will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way —
and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only
nine miles from home."
" Ah, Catherine ! were it settled so, it would be some-
what less intolerable, though in such common attentions
you would have received but half what you ought.
But — how can I tell you ? — To-morrow morning is fixed
for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your
choice ; the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at
seven o'clock, and no servant will be offered you."
Catherine
( m5 )
Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. " I
could hardly believe my senses, when I heard it ; — and
no displeasure, no resentment that you can feel at this
moment, however justly great, can be more than I my-
self but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh ! that
I could suggest any thing in extenuation ! Good God 1
what will your father and mother say ! After courting
you from the protection of real friends to this — almost
double distance from your home, to have you driven out
of the house, without the considerations even of decent
civility ! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer of
such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult ;
yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have been
long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal
mistress of it, that my real power is nothing."
" Have I offended the General ? " said Catherine in
a faltering voice.
" Alas ! for my feelings as a daughter, all that I know,
all that I answer for is, that you can have given him no
just cause of offence. He certainly is greatly, very
greatly discomposed ; I have seldom seen him more so.
His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred
to ruffle it in an uncommon degree ; some disappointment,
some vexation, which just at this moment seems impor-
tant ; but which I can hardly suppose you to have any
concern in, for how is it possible ? "
It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all ;
and it was only for Eleanor's sake that she attempted it.
" I am sure," said she, " I am very sorry if I have offended
him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done.
But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement you
know must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected
sooner, that I might have written home. But it is of very
little consequence."
" I hope, I earnestly hope that to your real safety it
will be of none ; but to every thing else it is of the greatest
consequence ; to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your
family, to the world. Were your friends, the Aliens, still
1781.5 Q in
( 226 )
in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease ;
a few hours would take you there ; but a journey of
seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your age,
alone, unattended ! "
" Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that.
And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later, you
know, makes no difference. I can be ready by seven.
Let me be called in time." Eleanor saw that she wished
to be alone ; and believing it better for each that they
should avoid any further conversation, now left her with
*' I shall see you in the morning."
Catherine's swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor's
presence friendship and pride had equally restrained
her tears, but no sooner was she gone than they burst
forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and in such
a way ! — Without any reason that could justify, any
apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness,
nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a distance — not able
even to bid him farewell. Every hope, every expectation
from him suspended, at least, and who could say how
long ? — Who could say when they might meet again ? —
And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite,
so well-bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her !
It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and
grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would
end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm.
The manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil ;
hurrying her away without any reference to her own
convenience, or allowing her even the appearance of
choice as to the time or mode of her travelling ; of two
days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest
hour, as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring
in the morning, that he might not be obliged even to see
her. What could all this mean but an intentional
affront ? By some means or other she must have had
the misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to
spare her from so painful a notion, but Catherine could
not believe it possible that any injury or any misfortune
could
( 227 )
could provoke such ill-will against a person not connected,
or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it.
Heavily past the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved
the name of sleep, was out of the question. That room,
in which her disturbed imagination had tormented her
on her first arrival, was again the scene of agitated spirits
and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the source
of her inquietude from what it had been then — how
mournfully superior in reality and substance 1 Her
anxiety had foundation in fact, her fears in probability ;
and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation of
actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation, the
darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building
were felt and considered without the smallest emotion ;
and though the wind was high, and often produced
strange and sudden noises throughout the house, she
heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without
curiosity or terror.
Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show
attention or give assistance where it was possible ; but
very little remained to be done. Catherine had not
loitered ; she was almost dressed, and her packing almost
finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message
from the General occurred to her as his daughter appeared.
What so natural, as that anger should pass away and
repentance succeed it ? and she only wanted to know
how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly
be received by her. But the knowledge would have been
useless here, it was not called for ; neither clemency nor
dignity was put to the trial — Eleanor brought no message.
Very little passed between them on meeting ; each found
her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were the
sentences exchanged while they remained up stairs,
Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress, and
lleanor with more good- will than experience intent upon
lling the trunk. When every thing was done they left
the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind
ler friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known
Q 2 cherished
( 228 )
cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour,
where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well
to save herself from the pain of being urged, as to make
her friend comfortable ; but she had no appetite, and
could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between
this and her last breakfast in that room, gave her fresh
misery, and strengthened her distaste for every thing
before her. It was not four- and- twenty hours ago since
they had met there to the same repast, but in circum-
stances how different ! With what cheerful ease, what
happy, though false security, had she then looked around
her, enjoying every thing present, and fearing little in
future, beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day !
Happy, happy breakfast I for Henry had been there,
Henry had sat by her and helped her. These reflections
were long indulged undisturbed by any address from her
companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and
the appearance of the carriage was the first thing to
startle and recall them to the present moment. Catherine's
colour rose at the sight of it ; and the indignity with
which she was treated striking at that instant on her
mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time
sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now
impelled into resolution and speech.
" You must write to me, Catherine," she cried, " you
must let me hear from you as soon as possible. Till
I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour's
comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must
entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that
you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family
well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence as
I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to me at
Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it, under cover to
Alice."
" No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter
from me, I am sure I had better not write. There can be
no doubt of my getting home safe."
Eleanor only replied, " I cannot wonder at your
feelings.
(
)
feelings. I will not importune you. I will trust to your
own kindness of heart when I am at a distance from you."
But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying it, was
enough to melt Catherine's pride in a moment, and she
instantly said, "Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed."
There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was
anxious to settle, though somewhat embarrassed in speak-
ing of. It had occurred to her, that after so long an
absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with
money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon
suggesting it to her with most affectionate offers of accom-
modation, it proved to be exactly the case. Catherine
had never thought on the subject till that moment ; but,
upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for this
kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from
the house without even the means of getting home ;
and the distress in which she must have been thereby
involved filling the minds of both, scarcely another word
was said by either during the time of their remaining
together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage
was soon announced to be ready ; and Catherine, instantly
rising, a long and affectionate embrace supplied the place
of language in bidding each other adieu ; and, as they
entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some
mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken
by either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips
just made it intelligible that she left " her kind remem-
brance for her absent friend." But with this approach
to his name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings ;
and, hiding her face as well as she could with her handker-
chief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise,
and in a moment was driven from the door.
CHAP-
CHAPTER XIV.
Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The
journey in itself had no terrors for her ; and she began it
without either dreading its length, or feeling its solitariness.
Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent
burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the
walls of the Abbey before she raised her head ; and the
highest point of ground within the park was almost closed
from her view before she was capable of turning her
eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now
travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had
so happily passed along in going to and from Woodston ;
and, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was rendered
more severe by the review of objects on which she had
first looked under impressions so different. Every mile,
as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings,
and when within the distance of five, she passed the
turning which led to it, and thought of Henry, so near,
yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation were excessive.
The day which she had spent at that place had been
one of the happiest of her life. It was there, it was on
that day that the General had made use of such expres-
sions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken
and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction
of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten
days ago had he elated her by his pointed regard — had he
even confused her by his too significant reference ! And
now — what had she done, or what had she omitted to do,
to merit such a change ?
The only offence against him of which she could accuse
herself, had been such as was scarcely possible to reach
his knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were
privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly
entertained ; and equally safe did she believe her secret
with
( 231 )
with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could niot have
betrayed her. If, indeed, by any strange mischance his
father should have gained intelligence of what she had
dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and
injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any
degree of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed
him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even
turning her from his house. But a justification so full of
torture to herself, she trusted would not be in his power.
Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it
was not, however, the one on which she dwelt most.
There was a thought yet nearer, a more prevailing, more
impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,
and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger
and heard of her being gone, was a question of force and
interest to rise over every other, to be never ceasing,
alternately irritating and soothing; it sometimes suggested
the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was
answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and
resentment. To the General, of course, he would not
dare to speak ; but to Eleanor — what might he not say
to Eleanor about her ?
In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries,
on any one article of which her mind was incapable of
more than momentary repose, the hours passed away,
and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.
The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her
from noticing any thing before her, when once beyond the
neighbourhood of Woodston, saved her at the same time
from watching her progress ; and though no object on the
road could engage a moment's attention, she found no
stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by
another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey's
•onclusion ; for to return in such a manner to Fullerton
ras almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with
those she loved best, even after an absence such as her's —
m eleven weeks absence. What had she to say that
rould not humble herself and pain her family ; that
would
( 232 )
would not increase her own grief by the confession of it,
extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the
innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill-will ?
She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor's merit ;
she felt it too strongly for expression ; and should a dislike
be taken against them, should they be thought of un-
favourably, on their father's account, it would cut her
to the heart.
With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for
the first view of that well-known spire which would
announce her within twenty miles of home. Salisbury
she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger ;
but after the first stage she had been indebted to the
post-masters for the names of the places which were then
to conduct her to it ; so great had been her ignorance of
her route. She met with nothing, however, to distress or
frighten her. Her youth, civil manners and liberal pay,
procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself
could require ; and stopping only to change horses, she
travelled on for about eleven hours without accident
or alarm, and between six and seven o'clock in the evening
found herself entering Fullerton.
A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her
native village, in all the triumph of recovered reputation,
and all the dignity of a countess, with a long train of
noble relations in their several phaetons, and three
waiting-maids in a travelling chaise-and-four, behind her,
is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well
delight to dwell ; it gives credit to every conclusion, and
the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows.
— But my affair is widely different ; I bring back my
heroine to her home in solitude and disgrace ; and no
sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.
A heroine in a hack post-chaise, is such a blow upon
sentiment, as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can
withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her post-boy drive
through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and
speedy shall be her descent from it.
But,
( 233 )
But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine's
mind, as she thus advanced towards the Parsonage, and
whatever the humiUation of her biographer in relating it,
she was preparing enjoyment of no every- day nature
for those to whom she went ; first, in the appearance of
her carriage — and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a
traveller being a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family
were immediately at the window ; and to have it stop
at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye
and occupy every fancy — ^a pleasure quite unlooked for
by all but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of
six and four years old, who expected a brother or sister
in every carriage. Happy the glance that first dis-
tinguished Catherine ! — ^Happy the voice that proclaimed
the discovery ! — But whether such happiness were the
lawful property of George or Harriet could never be
exactly understood.
Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all
assembled at the door, to welcome her with affectionate
eagerness, was a sight to awaken the best feelings of
Catherine's heart ; and in the embrace of each, as she
stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed
beyond any thing that she had believed possible. So
surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy ! In the
joyfulness of family love every thing for a short time was
subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at
first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated
round the tea-table, which Mrs, Morland had hurried for
the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded
looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so direct
as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.
Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then
begin what might perhaps, at the end of half an hour,
be termed by the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation ;
but scarcely, within that time, could they at all discover
the cause, or collect the particulars of her sudden return.
They were far from being an irritable race ; far from any
quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting affronts : —
but
( 234 )
but here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult
not to be overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be
easily pardoned. Without suffering any romantic alarm,
in the consideration of their daughter's long and lonely
journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it
might have been productive of much unpleasantness to
her ; that it was what they could never have voluntarily
suffered ; and that, in forcing her on such a measure,
General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feel-
ingly— neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he
had done it, what could have provoked him to such
a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his
partial regard for their daughter into actual ill-will, was
a matter which they were at least as far from divining as
Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any
means so long ; and, after a due course of useless con-
jecture, that, " it was a strange business, and that he
must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their
indignation and wonder ; though Sarah indeed still
indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming
and conjecturing with youthful ardour. — " My dear, you
give yourself a great deal of needless trouble," said her
mother at last ; " depend upon it, it is something' not at
all worth understanding."
" I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he
recollected this engagement," said Sarah, " but why not
do it civilly ? "
" I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs.
Morland ; " they must have a sad time of it ; but as for
any thing else, it is no matter now ; Catherine is safe at
home, and our comfort does not depend upon General
Tilney." Catherine sighed. " Well," continued her
philosophic mother, " I am glad I did not know of your
journey at the time ; but now it is all over perhaps there
is no great harm done. It is always good for young
people to be put upon exerting themselves ; and you
know, my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little
shatter-brained creature ; but now you must have been
forced
I
( 235 )
forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing
of chaises and so forth ; and I hope it will appear that
you have not left any thing behind you in any of the
pockets."
Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in
her own amendment, but her spirits were quite worn
down ; and, to be silent and alone becoming soon her only
wish, she readily agreed to her mother's next counsel of
going early to bed. Her parents seeing nothing in her
ill-looks and agitation but the natural consequence of
mortified feelings, and of the unusual exertion and
fatigue of such a journey, parted from her without any
doubt of their being soon slept away ; and though, when
they all met the next morning, her recovery was not
equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious
of there being any deeper evil. They never once thought
of her heart, which, for the parents of a young lady of
seventeen, just returned from her first excursion from
home, was odd enough !
As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil
her promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of
time and distance on her friend's disposition was already
justified, for already did Catherine reproach herself with
having parted from Eleanor coldly ; with having never
enough valued her merits or kindness ; and never enough
commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to
endure. The strength of these feelings, however, was far
from assisting her pen ; and never had it been harder
for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney. To
compose a letter which might at once do justice to her
sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without
servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest
without resentment — a letter which Eleanor might not be
pained by the perusal of — and, above all, which she might
not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an
undertaking to frighten away all her powers of perform-
ance ; and, after long thought and much perplexity, to
be very brief was all that she could determine on with
any
( 236 )
any confidence of safety. The money therefore which
Eleanor had advanced was inclosed with little more than
grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most
affectionate heart.
" This has been a strange acquaintance," observed
Mrs. Morland, as the letter was finished ; " soon made
and soon ended. — I am sorry it happens so, for Mrs.
Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people;
and you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella.
Ah ! poor James ! Well, we must live and learn ; and
the next new friends you make I hope will be better
worth keeping."
Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, " No
friend can be better worth keeping than Eleanor."
" If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some
time or other ; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but
you are thrown together again in the course of a few
years ; and then what a pleasure it will be ! "
Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at conso-
lation. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few
years could only put into Catherine's head what might
happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to
her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of
him with less tenderness than she did at that moment ;
but he might forget her ; and in that case to meet !
Her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance
so renewed ; and her mother, perceiving her comfortable
suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as
another expedient for restoring her spirits, that they
should call on Mrs. Allen.
The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart ;
and, as they walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all
that she felt on the score of James's disappointment.
*' We are sorry for him," said she ; " but otherwise there
is no harm done in the match going off ; for it could not
be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom
we had not the smallest acquaintance with, and who was
so entirely without fortune ; and now, after such beha-
viour,
( 237 )
viour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at present
it comes hard to poor James ; but that will not last for
ever ; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his
life, for the foolishness of his first choice."
This was just such a summary view of the affair as
Catherine could listen to ; another sentence might have
endangered her complaisance, and made her reply less
rational ; for soon were all her thinking powers swallowed
up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and
spirits since last she had trodden that well-known road.
It was not three months ago since, wild with joyful
expectation, she had there run backwards and forwards
some ten times a-day, with an heart light, gay, and
independent ; looking forward to pleasures untasted and
unalloyed, and free from the apprehension of evil as from
the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all
this ; and now, how altered a being did she return !
She was received by the Aliens with all the kindness
which her unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady
affection, would naturally call forth ; and great was their
surprize, and warm their displeasure, on hearing how she
had been treated, — though Mrs. Morland's account of it
was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their
passions. " Catherine took us quite by surprize yesterday
evening," said she. " She travelled all the way post by
herself, and knew nothing of coming till Saturday night ;
for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all of
a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost
turned her out of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly ;
and he must be a very odd man ; — but we are so glad to
have her amongst us again ! And it is a great comfort
to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can
shift very well for herself."
Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the
reasonable resentment of a sensible friend ; and Mrs,
Allen thought his expressions quite good enough to be
immediately made use of again by herself. His wonder,
his conjectures, and his explanations, became in succession
her's,
( ^38 )
her's, with the addition of this single remark — " I really
have not patience with the General "—to fill up every
accidental pause. And, " I really have not patience with
the General," was uttered twice after Mr. Allen left the
room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material
digression of thought. A more considerable degree of
wandering attended the third repetition ; and, after com*
pleting the fourth, she immediately added, '' Only think,
my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent in my
best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath,
that one can hardly see where it was. I must shew it you
some day or other. Bath is a nice place, Catherine, after
all. I assure you I did not above half like coming away.
Mrs. Thorpe's being there was such a comfort to us, was
not it ? You know you and I were quite forlorn at first."
" Yes, but that did not last long," said Catherine, her
eyes brightening at the recollection of what had first
given spirit to her existence there.
" Very true : we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then
we wanted for nothing. My dear, do not you think
these silk gloves wear very well ? I put them on new
the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you know,
and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you
remember that evening ? "
''Do I! Oh! perfectly."
" It was very agreeable, was not it ? Mr. Tilney drank
tea with us, and I always thought him a great addition,
he is so very agreeable. I have a notion you danced
with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my
favourite gown on."
Catherine could not answer ; and, after a short trial
of other subjects, Mrs. Allen again returned to — " I really
have not patience with the General ! Such an agreeable,
worthy man as he seemed to be ! I do not suppose,
Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your
life. His lodgings were taken the very day after he left
them, Catherine. But no wonder ; Milsom- street you
know." —
As
( 239 )
As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured
to impress on her daughter's mind the happiness of having
such steady well-wishers as Mr. and Mrs. Allen, and the
very little consideration which the neglect or unkindness
of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have
with her, while she could preserve the good opinion and
affection of her earliest friends. There was a great deal
of good sense in all this ; but there are some situations
of the human mind in which good sense has very little
power ; and Catherine's feelings contradicted almost
every position her mother advanced. It was upon the
behaviour of these very slight acquaintance that all her
present happiness depended ; and while Mrs. Morland
was successfully confirming her own opinions by the
justness of her own representations, Catherine was
silently reflecting that now Henry must have arrived at
Northanger ; now he must have heard of her departure ;
and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford.
CHAP-
( 240 )
CHAPTER XV.
Catherine's disposition was not naturally sedentary,
nor had her habits been ever very industrious ; but what-
ever might hitherto have been her defects of that sort,
her mother could not but perceive them now to be greatly
increased. She could neither sit still, nor employ herself
for ten minutes together, walking round the garden and
orchard again and again, as if nothing but motion was
voluntary ; and it seemed as if she could even walk about
the house rather than remain fixed for any time in the
parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration.
In her rambling and her idleness she might only be
a caricature of herself ; but in her silence and sadness she
was the very reverse of all that she had been before.
For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even
without a hint ; but when a third night's rest had neither
restored her cheerfulness, improved her in useful activity,
nor given her a greater inclination for needle-work, she
could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, " My
dear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine
lady. I do not know when poor Richard's cravats would
be done, if he had no friend but you. Your head runs
too much upon Bath ; but there is a time for every thing —
a time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You
have had a long run of amusement, and now you must
try to be useful."
Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a
dejected voice, that *' her head did not run upon
Bath much."
" Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that
is very simple of you ; for ten to one whether you ever
see him again. You should never fret about trifles."
After a short silence — " I hope, my Catherine, you are
not getting out of humour with home because it is not so
grand
grand as Northanger.
into an evil indeed,
always be contented,
( 241 )
That would be turning your visit
Wherever you are you should
but especially at home, because
there you must spend the most of your time. I did not
quite like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about
the French-bread at Northanger."
" I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the
same to me what I eat."
" There is a very clever Essay in one of the books up
stairs upon much such a subject, about young girls that
have been spoilt for home by great acquaintance — ' The
Mirror,' I think. I will look it out for you some day or
other, because I am sure it will do you good."
Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do
right, applied to her work ; but, after a few minutes,
sunk again, without knowing it herself, into languor and
listlessness, moving herself in her chair, from the irritation
of weariness, much oftener than she moved her needle. —
Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse ; and
seeing, in her daughter's absent and dissatisfied look, the
full proof of that repining spirit to which she had now
begun to attribute her want of cheerfulness, hastily left
the room to fetch the book in question, anxious to lose
no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some
time before she could find what she looked for ; and
other family matters occurring to detain her, a quarter
of an hour had elapsed ere she returned down stairs with
the volume from which so much was hoped. Her avoca-
tions above having shut out all noise but what she created
herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within
the last few minutes, till, on entering the room, the first
object she beheld was a young man whom she had never
seen before. With a look of much respect, he imme-
diately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious
daughter as " Mr. Henry Tilney," with the embarrass-
ment of real sensibility began to apologise for his appear-
ance there, acknowledging that after what had passed
he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and
R stating
1781.5
( 242 )
stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Holland's
having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his
intrusion. He did not address himself to an uncandid
judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him
or his sister in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Morland
had been always kindly disposed towards each, and
instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him with
the simple professions of unaffected benevolence ; thank-
ing him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring
him that the friends of her children were always welcome
there, and intreating him to say not another word of
the past.
He was not ill inclined to obey this request, for, though
his Jieart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for
mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power
to say any thing to the purpose. Returning in silence to
his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most
civilly answering all Mrs. Morland's common remarks
about the weather and roads. Catherine meanwhile, —
the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine, — said
not a word ; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye
made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would
at least set her heart at ease for a time, and gladly there-
fore did she lay aside the first volume of the Mirror for
a future hour.
Desirous of Mr. Morland's assistance, as well in giving
encouragement, as in finding conversation for her guest,
whose embarrassment on his father's account she earnestly
pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched one of
the children to summon him ; but Mr. Morland was from
home — and being thus without any support, at the end
of a quarter of an hour she had nothing to say. After
a couple of minutes unbroken silence, Henry, turning to
Catherine for the first time since her mother's entrance,
asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen
were now at Fullerton ? and on developing, from amidst
all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which
one short syllable would have given, immediately ex-
pressed
( 243 )
pressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and,
with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the
goodness to shew him the way. " You may see the house
from this window, sir," was information on Sarah's side,
which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the
gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother ; for
Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary con-
sideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neigh-
bours, that he might have some explanation to give of
his father's behaviour, which it must be more pleasant
for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on
any account prevent her accompanying him. They
began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely
mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation
on his father's account he had to give ; but his first
purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached
Mr. Allen's grounds he had done it so well, that Catherine
did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She
was assured of his affection ; and that heart in return
was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew
was already entirely his own ; for, though Henry was
now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted
in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved
her society, I must confess that his affection originated
in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that
a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only
cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new cir-
cumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully
derogatory of an heroine's dignity ; but if it be as new
in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at
least be all my own.
A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked
at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine,
wrapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable
happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the
extasies of another tete-a-tete ; and before it was suffered
to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanc-
tioned by parental authority in his present application.
R2 On
(244 )
On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had
been met near the Abbey by his impatient father, hastily
informed in angry tetms of Miss Morland's departure, and
ordered to think of her no more.
Such was the permission upon which he had now
offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst
all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account,
could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which
Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious
rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the
subject ; and as he proceeded to give the particulars,
and explain the motives of his father's conduct, her
feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight.
The General had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing
to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary,
unconscious object of a deception which his pride could
not pardon, and which a better pride would have been
ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich
than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken
persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted
her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at
Northanger, and designed her for his daughter in law.
On discovering his error, to turn her from the house
seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate
proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt
of her family.
John Thorpe had first misled him. The General, per-
ceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying
considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally
inquired of Thorpe, if he knew more of her than her name.
Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man
of General Tilney's importance, had been joyfully and
proudly communicative ; — and being at that time not
only in daily expectation of Morland's engaging Isabella,
but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine
himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family
as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had
made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or
was
( 245 )
was likely to be connected, his own consequence always
required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy
with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their
fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, there-
fore, from the first over-rated, had ever since his intro-
duction to Isabella, been gradually increasing ; and by
merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the
moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount
of Mr. Morland's preferment, trebling his private fortune,
bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children,
he was able to represent the whole family to the General
in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the
peculiar object of the General's curiosity, and his own
speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and
the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could
give her, would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen's estate.
Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on
her being handsomely legacied hereafter ; and to speak
of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future
heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such
intelligence the General had proceeded ; for never had it
occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe's interest
in the family, by his sister's approaching connection with
one of its members, and his own views on another, (cir-
cumstances of which he boasted with almost equal open-
ness,) seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth ; and to
these were added the absolute facts of the Aliens being
wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland's being under
their care, and — as soon as his acquaintance allowed him
to judge — of their treating her with parental kindness.
His resolution was soon formed. Already had he dis-
cerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance
of his son ; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe's communication,
he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in
weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest
hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at
the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and
Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to
engage
( 246 )
engage their father's particular respect, had seen with
astonishment the suddenness, continuance and extent
of his attention ; and though latterly, from some hints
which had accompanied an almost positive command to
his son of doing every thing in his power to attach her,
Henry was convinced of his father's believing it to be an
advantageous connection, it was not till the late explana-
tion at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the
false calculations which had hurried him on. That they
were false, the General had learnt from the very person
who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he
had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the
influence of exactly opposite feelings, . irritated by
Catherine's refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very
recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between
Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated
for ever, and spurning a friendship which could be no
longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had
said before to the advantage of the Morlands ; — confessed
himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of
their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodo-
montade of his friend to believe his father a man of
substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two
or three last weeks proved him to be neither ; for after
coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage
between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he
had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of
the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself
incapable of giving the young people even a decent
support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family ;
numerous too almost beyond example ; by no means
respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately
had particular opportunities of discovering ; aiming at
a style of life which their fortune could not warrant ;
seeking to better themselves by wealthy connexions ;
a forward, bragging, scheming race.
The terrified General pronounced the name of Allen
with an inquiring look ; and here too Thorpe had learnt
his
( 247 )
his error. The Aliens, he believed, had lived near them
too long, and he knew the young man on whom the
Fullerton estate must devolve. The General needed no
more. Enraged with almost every body in the world
but himself, he set out the next day for the Abbey, where
his performances have been seen.
I leave it to my reader's sagacity to determine how
much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate
at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have
learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures
might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be
told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease
what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate,
heard enough to feel, that in suspecting General Tilney of
either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely
sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.
Henry, in having such things to relate of his father,
was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself.
He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was
obliged to expose. The conversation between them at
Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind.
Henry's indignation on hearing how Catherine had been
treated, on comprehending his father's views, and being
ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold.
The General, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to
give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but
of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe
itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son,
steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of con-
science could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger,
though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who
was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice.
He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection
tto Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own
f which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction
of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable
anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions
it prompted.
He
( 248 )
He steadily refused to accompany his father into
Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the
moment, to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as
steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand.
The General was furious in his anger, and they parted in
dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind
which many solitary hours were required to compose, had
returned almost instantly to Woodston ; and, on the
afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to
Fullerton.
CHAP-
( 249 )
CHAPTER XVI.
Mr. and Mrs. Morland's surprize on being applied to
by Mr. Tilney, for their consent to his marrying their
daughter, was, for a few minutes, considerable ; it having
never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on
either side ; but as nothing, after all, could be more
natural than Catherine's being beloved, they soon learnt
to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified
pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not
a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and
good sense were self-evident recommendations ; and
having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to
suppose any evil could be told. Good-will supplying the
place of experience, his character needed no attestation.
" Catherine would make a sad heedless young house-
keeper to be sure," was her mother's foreboding remark ;
but quick was the consolation of there being nothing like
practice.
There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned ;
but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for
them to sanction the engagement. Their tempers were
mild, but their principles were steady, and while his
parent so expressly forbad the connexion, they could not
allow themselves to encourage it. That the General
should come forward to solicit the alHance, or that he
should even very heartily approve it, they were not
refined enough to make any parading stipulation ; but
the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and
that once obtained — and their own hearts made them
trust that it could not be very long denied — their willing
approbation was instantly to follow. His consent was all
that they wished for. They were no more inclined than
entitled to demand his money. Of a very considerable
fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually
secure :
( 250 )
secure ; his present income was an income of independence
and comfort, and under every pecuniary view, it was
a match beyond the claims of their daughter.
The young people could not be surprized at a decision
like this. They felt and they deplored — ^but they could
not resent it ; and they parted, endeavouring to hope
that such a change in the General, as each believed
almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite
them again in the fullness of privileged affection. Henry
returned to what was now his only home, to watch over
his young plantations, and extend his improvements for
her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously
forward ; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry.
Whether the torments of absence were softened by
a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and
Mrs. Morland never did — they had been too kind to
exact any promise ; and whenever Catherine received
a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often, they
always looked another way.
The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment
must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all
who loved either, as to its final event, can hardly extend,
I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will see in the
tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we
are all hastening together to perfect felicity. The means
by which their early marriage was effected can be the
only doubt ; what probable circumstance could work
upon a temper like the General's ? The circumstance
which chiefly availed, was the marriage of his daughter
with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place
in the course of the summer — an accession of dignity that
threw him into a fit of good-humour, from which he did
not recover till after Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness
of Henry, and his permission for him " to be a fool if he
liked it ! "
The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all
the evils of such a home as Northanger had been made
by Henry's banishment, to the home of her choice and
the
I
( 251 )
the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to give
general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My
own joy on the occasion is very sincere. I know no one
more entitled, by unpretending merit, or better prepared
by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity. Her
partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin ;
and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of
situation from addressing her. His unexpected accession
to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties ;
and never had the General loved his daughter so well in
all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient
endurance, as when he first hailed her, " Your Ladyship ! "
Her husband was really deserving of her ; independent
of his peerage, his wealth, and his attachment, being to
a precision the most charming young man in the world.
Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary ;
the most charming young man in the world is instantly
before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in
question therefore I have only to add — (aware that the
rules of composition forbid the introduction of a character
not connected with my fable) — that this was the very
gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that
collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at
Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in one
of her most alarming adventures.
The influence of the Viscount and Viscountess in their
brother's behalf was assisted by that right understanding
of Mr. Morland's circumstances which, as soon as the
General would allow himself to be informed, they were
qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely
more misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth,
than by his subsequent malicious overthrow of it ; that
in no sense of the word were they necessitous or poor,
and that Catherine would have three thousand pounds.
This was so material an amendment of his late expecta-
tions, that it greatly contributed to smooth the descent
of his pride ; and by no means without its effect was the
private intelligence, which he was at some pains to
procure.
( 252 )
procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the
disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open
to every greedy speculation.
On the strength of this, the General, soon after Eleanor's
marriage, permitted his son to return to Northanger, and
thence made him the bearer of his consent, very courteously
worded in a page full of empty professions to Mr. Morland.
The event which it authorized soon followed : Henry
and Catherine were married, the bells rang and every
body smiled ; and, as this took place within a twelve-
month from the first day of their meeting, it will not
appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by the
General's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it.
To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of
twenty-six and eighteen, is to do pretty well ; and pro-
fessing myself moreover convinced, that the General's
unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to
their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by
improving their knowledge of each other, and adding
strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled by
whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this
work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or
reward filial disobedience.
END or VOL. II.
,~^^:^^cr72Af/r ..V&WTKs^
JX^. ^^'^cy .^^-^^
2./
■^V'-f.^J^. Ji^',
NOETHANGER ABBEY:
AND
PERSUASION.
BY THE AUTHOR OP " PRIDE AND PREJUDICE,'
" MANSFIELD-PARK," &C.
WITH A BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICE OF THE
AUTHOR.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. IIL
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.
1818.
PERSUASION.
CHAPTER I.
Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch-hall, in Somersetshire,
was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up
any book but the Baronetage ; there he found occupation
for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one ;
there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect,
by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest
patents ; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from
domestic affairs, changed naturally into pity and contempt,
as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last
century — and there, if every other leaf were powerless,
he could read his own history with an interest which
never failed — this was the page at which the favourite
volume always opened :
" ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH-HALL.
*' Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15,
1784, EHzabeth, daughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of
South Park, in the county of Gloucester ; by which lady
(who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born June 1,
1785 ; Anne, born August 9, 1787 ; a still-born son,
Nov. 5, 1789 ; Mary, born Nov. 20, 1791."
Precisely such had the paragraph originally stood from
the printer's hands ; but Sir Walter had improved it by
adding, for the information of himself and his family,
these words, after the date of Mary's birth — " married,
Dec. 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles Musgrove,
Esq. of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset," — ^and by
inserting most accurately the day of the month on which
he had lost his wife.
Then followed the history and rise of the ancient and
respectable
( 4 )
respectable family, in the usual terms : how it had been
first settled in Cheshire ; how mentioned in Dugdale —
serving the office of High Sheriff, representing a borough
in three successive parliaments, exertions of loyalty, and
dignity of baronet, in the first year of Charles II., with
all the Marys and Elizabeths they had married ; forming
altogether two handsome duodecimo pages, and con-
cluding with the arms and motto : " Principal seat,
Kellynch hall, in the county of Somerset,'* and Sir Walter's
hand- writing again in this finale :
" Heir presumptive, William Walter Elliot, Esq.,
great grandson of the second Sir Walter."
Vanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter
Elliot's character ; vanity of person and of situation.
He had been remarkably handsome in his youth ; and,
at fifty-four, was still a very fine man. Few women
could think more of their personal appearance than he
did ; nor could the valet of any new made lord be more
delighted with the place he held in society. He considered
the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the blessing of
a baronetcy ; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united these
gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and
devotion.
His good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his
attachment ; since to them he must have owed a wife
of very superior character to any thing deserved by his
own. Lady Elliot had been an excellent woman, sensible
and amiable ; whose judgment and conduct, if they
might be pardoned the youthful infatuation which made
her Lady Elliot, had never required indulgence afterwards.
— She had humoured, or softened, or concealed his
failings, and promoted his real respectability for seventeen
years ; and though not the very happiest being in the
world herself, had found enough in her duties, her friends,
and her children, to attach her to life, and make it no
matter of indifference to her when she was called on to
quit them. — Three girls, the two eldest sixteen and
fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath ;
an
( 5 )
an awful charge rather, to confide to the authority and
guidance of a conceited, silly father. She had, however,
one very intimate friend, a sensible, deserving woman,
who had been brought, by strong attachment to herself, to
settle close by her, in the village of Kellynch ; and on her
kindness and advice. Lady Elliot mainly relied for the best L . (Z^j^>^^^.
help and maintenance of the good principles and instruction
which she had been anxiously giving her daughters.
This friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever
might have been anticipated on that head by their
acquaintance. — Thirteen years had passed away since
Lady Elliot's death, and they were still near neighbours
and intimate friends ; and one remained a widower, the
other a widow.
That Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and
extremely well provided for, should have no thought of
a second marriage, needs no apology to the public, which
is rather apt to be unreasonably discontented when a
woman does marry again, than when she does not ; but
Sir Walter's continuing in singleness requires explana-
tion.— Be it known then, that Sir Walter, like a good
father, (having met with one or two private disappoint-
ments in very unreasonable applications) prided himself
on remaining single for his dear daughter's sake. For
one daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up
any thing, which he had not been very much tempted to
do. Elizabeth had succeeded, at sixteen, to all that was
possible, of her mother's rights and consequence ; and
being very handsome, and very like himself, her influence
had always been great, and they had gone on together
most happily. His two other children were of very
inferior value. Mary had acquired a little artificial
importance, by becoming Mrs. Charles Musgrove ; but
Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of char-
"acter, which must have placed her high with any people
of real understanding, was nobody with either father or
sister : her word had no weight ; her convenience was
alwavs to give way ; — she was only Anne.
1781.5 s To
( 6 )
To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and
highly valued god-daughter, favourite and friend. Lady
Russell loved them all ; but it was only in Anne that she
could fancy the mother to revive again.
A few years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty
girl, but her bloom had vanished early ; and as even in
its height, her father had found little to admire in her,
(so totally different were her delicate features and mild
dark eyes from his own) ; there could be nothing in them
now that she was faded and thin, to excite his esteem.
He had never indulged much hope, he had now none, of
ever reading her name in any other page of his favourite
work. All equality of alliance must rest with Elizabeth ;
for Mary had merely connected herself with an old
country family of respectability and large fortune, and
had therefore given all the honour, and received none :
Elizabeth would, one day or other, marry suitably.
It sometimes happens, that a woman is handsomer at
twenty-nine than she was ten years before ; and, generally
speaking, if there has been neither ill health nor anxiety,
it is a time of life at which scarcely any charm is lost.
It was so with Elizabeth ; still the same handsome
Miss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago ;
and Sir Walter might be excused, therefore, in forgetting
her age, or, at least, be deemed only half a fool, for
thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming as ever,
amidst the wreck of the good looks of every body else ;
for he could plainly see how old all the rest of his family
and acquaintance were growing. Anne haggard, Mary
coarse, every face in the neighbourhood worsting ; and
the rapid increase of the crow's foot about Lady Russell's
temples had long been a distress to him.
Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal
contentment. Thirteen years had seen her mistress of
Kellynch Hall, presiding and directing with a self-
possession and decision which could never have given
the idea of her being younger than she was. For thirteen
years had she been doing the honours, and laying down
the
( 1 )
the domestic law at home, and leading the way to the
chaise and four, and walking immediately after Lady
Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms
in the country. Thirteen winters' revolving frosts had
seen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty
neighbourhood afforded ; and thirteen springs shewn
their blossoms, as she travelled up to London with her
father, for a few weeks annual enjoyment of the great
world. She had the remembrance of all this ; she had
the consciousness of being nine-and-twenty, to give her
some regrets and some apprehensions. She was fully
satisfied of being still quite as handsome as ever ; but
she felt her approach to the years of danger, and would
have rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited
by baronet-blood within the next twelvemonth or two.
Then might she again take up the book of books with
as much enjoyment as in her early youth ; but now she
liked it not. Always to be presented with the date of ^
her own birth, and see no marriage follow but that of
a youngest sister, made the book an evil ; and more ^
than once, when her father had left it open on the table x
near her, had she closed it, with averted eyes, and pushed )
it away.
She had had a disappointment, moreover, which that
book, and especially the history of her own family, must
ever present the remembrance of. The heir presumptive,
the very William Walter Elliot, Esq. whose rights had
been so generously supported by her father, had dis-
appointed her.
She had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had
known him to be, in the event of her having no brother,
the future baronet, meant to marry him ; and her father
had always meant that she should. He had not been
known to them as a boy, but soon after Lady EUiot's
death Sir Walter had sought the acquaintance, and though
his overtures had not been met with any warmth, he had
persevered in seeking it, making allowance for the modest
drawing back of youth ; and in one of their spring
s 2 excursion^
( 8 )
excursions to London, when Elizabeth was in her first
bloom, Mr. Elliot had been forced into the introduction.
He was at that time a very young man, just engaged
in the study of the law ; and Elizabeth found him
extremely agreeable, and every plan in his favour was
confirmed. He was invited to Kellynch Hall ; he was
talked of and expected all the rest of the year ; but he
never came. The following spring he was seen again in
town, found equally agreeable, again encouraged, invited
and expected, and again he did not come ; and the next
tidings were that he was married. Instead of pushing
his fortune in the line marked out for the heir of the
house of Elliot, he had purchased independence by uniting
himself to a rich woman of inferior birth.
Sir Walter had resented it. As the head of the house,
he felt that he ought to have been consulted, especially
after taking the young man so publicly by the hand :
" For they must have been seen together," he observed,
" once at Tattersal's, and twice in the lobby of the House
of Commons." His disapprobation was expressed, but
apparently very little regarded. Mr. Elliot had attempted
no apology, and shewn himself as unsolicitous of being
longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter considered
him unworthy of it : all acquaintance between them had
ceased.
This very awkward history of Mr. Elliot, was still,
after an interval of several years, felt with anger by
Elizabeth, who had liked the man for himself, and still
more for being her father's heir, and whose strong family
pride could see only in him, a proper match for Sir Walter
Elliot's eldest daughter. There was not a baronet from
A to Z, whom her feelings could have so willingly acknow-
ledged as an equal. Yet so miserably had he conducted
himself, that though she was at this present time, (the
summer of 1814,) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she
could not admit him to be worth thinking of again. The
disgrace of his first marriage might, perhaps, as there was
no reason to suppose it perpetuated by offspring, have
been
( 9 )
been got over, had he not done worse ; but he had, as
by the accustomary intervention of kind friends they
had been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of them
all, most slightingly and contemptuously of the very
blood he belonged to, and the honours which were here-
after to be his own. This could not be pardoned.
Such were Elizabeth Elliot's sentiments and sensations ;
such the cares to alloy, the agitations to vary, the same-
ness and the elegance, the prosperity and the nothingness,
of her scene of life — such the feelings to give interest to
a long, uneventful residence in one country circle, to fill
the vacancies which there were no habits of utility abroad,
no talents or accomplishments for home, to occupy.
But now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was
beginning to be added to these. Her father was growing
distressed for money. She knew, that when he now took
up the Baronetage, it was to drive the heavy bills of his
Tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr. Shepherd,
his agent, from his thoughts. The Kellynch property
was good, but not equal to Sir Walter's apprehension of
the state required in its possessor. While Lady Elliot
lived, there had been method, moderation, and economy,
which had just kept him within his income ; but with
her had died all such right-mindedness, and from that
period he had been constantly exceeding it. It had not
been possible for him to spend less ; he had done nothing
but what Sir Walter Elliot was imperiously called on to
do ; but blameless as he was, he was not only growing
dreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often, that
it became vain to attempt concealing it longer, even
partially, from his daughter. He had given her some
hints of it the last spring in town ; he had gone so far
even as to say, " Can we retrench ? does it occur to you
that there is any one article in which we can retrench ? " —
and Elizabeth, to do her justice, had, in the first ardour
of female alarm, set seriously to think what could be
done, and had finally proposed these two branches of
economy : to cut off some unnecessary charities, and to
refrain
( 10 )
refrain from new-furnishing the drawing-room ; to which
expedients she afterwards added the happy thought of
their taking no present down to Anne, as had been the
usual yearly custom. But these measures, however good
in themselves, were insufficient for the real extent of the
evil, the whole of which Sir Walter found himself obliged
to confess to her soon afterwards. Elizabeth had nothing
to propose of deeper efficacy. She felt herself ill-used
and unfortunate, as did her father ; and they were neither
of them able to devise any means of lessening their ex-
penses without compromising their dignity, or relinquish-
ing their comforts in a way not to be borne.
There was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter
could dispose of; but had every acre been alienable, it
would have made no difference. He had condescended
to mortgage as far as he had the power, but he would never
condescend to sell. No ; he would never disgrace his
name so far. The Kellynch estate should be transmitted
whole and entire, as he had received it.
Their two confidential friends, Mr. Shepherd, who lived
in the neighbouring market town, and Lady Russell, were
called on to advise them ; and both father and daughter
seemed to expect that something should be struck out
by one or the other to remove their embarrassments and
reduce their expenditure, without involving the loss of
any indulgence of taste or pride.
CHAP-
( n )
CHAPTER n.
Mr. Shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever
might be his hold or his views on Sir Walter, would rather
have the disagreeable prompted by any body else, excused
himself from offering the slightest hint, and only begged
leave to recommend an implicit deference to the excellent
judgment of Lady Russell, — from whose known good sense
he fully expected to have just such resolute measures
advised, as he meant to see finally adopted.
Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject,
and gave it much serious consideration. She was a woman
rather of sound than of quick abilities, whose difficulties
in coming to any decision in this instance were great,
from the opposition of two leading principles. She was
of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour ;
but she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings,
as solicitous for the credit of the family, as aristocratic
in her ideas of what was due to them, as any body of
sense and honesty could well be. She was a benevolent,
charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attach-
ments ; most correct in her conduct, strict in her notions
of decorum, and with manners that were held a standard
of good-breeding. She had a cultivated mind, and was,
generally speaking, rational and consistent — but she had
prejudices on the side of ancestry ; she had a value for
rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the
faults of those who possessed them. Herself, the widow
of only a knight, she gave the dignity of a baronet all its
due ; and Sir Walter, independent of his claims as an
old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an obhging
landlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father
of Anne and her sisters, was, as being Sir Walter, in her
apprehension entitled to a great deal of compassion and
consideration under his present diflftculties.
They
I
( 12 )
They must retrench ; that did not admit of a doubt.
But she was very anxious to have it done with the least
possible pain to him and EUzabeth. She drew up plans
of economy, she made exact calculations, and she did,
what nobody else thought of doing, she consulted Anne,
who never seemed considered by the others as having
any interest in the question. She consulted, and in
a degree was influenced by her, in marking out the
scheme of retrenchment, which was at last submitted to
Sir Walter. Every emendation of Anne's had been on
the side of honesty against importance. She wanted
more vigorous measures, a more complete reformation,
a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of
indifference for every thing but justice and equity.
"If we can persuade your father to all this," said
Lady Russell, looking over her paper, " much may be
done. If he will adopt these regulations, in seven years
he will be clear ; and I hope we may be able to convince
him and Elizabeth, that Kellynch-hall has a respectability
in itself, which cannot be affected by these reductions ;
and that the true dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very
far from lessened, in the eyes of sensible people, by his
acting like a man of principle. What will he be doing,
in fact, but what very many of our first families have done,
' — or ought to do ? — There will be nothing singular in
his case ; and it is singularity which often makes the
worst part of our suffering, as it always does of our con-
duct. I have great hope of our prevailing. We must
be serious and decided — for, after all, the person who has
contracted debts must pay them ; and though a great
deal is due to the feelings of the gentleman, and the head
of a house, like your father, there is still more due to the
character of an honest man."
This was the principle on which Anne wanted her
father to be proceeding, his friends to be urging him. She
considered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear
away the claims of creditors, with all the expedition
which the most comprehensive retrenchments could
secure.
f
( 13 )
secure, and saw no dignity in any thing short of it. She
wanted it to be prescribed, and felt as a duty. She rated
Lady Russell's influence highly, and as to the severe
degree of self-denial, which her own conscience prompted,
she believed there might be Uttle more difficulty in
persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation.
Her knowledge of her father and Elizabeth, inclined her
to think that the sacrifice of one pair of horses would be
hardly less painful than of both, and so on, through the
whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle reductions.
How Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been
taken, is of little consequence. Lady Russell's had no
success at all — could not be put up with — were not to
be borne. " What ! Every comfort of life knocked off !
Journeys, London, servants, horses, table, — contractions
and restrictions every where. To live no longer with the
decencies even of a private gentleman ! No, he would
sooner quit Kellynch-hall at once, than remain in it on
such disgraceful terms."
" Quit Kellynch-hall." The hint was immediately taken
up by Mr. Shepherd, whose interest was involved in the
reality of Sir Walter's retrenching, and who was perfectly
persuaded that nothing would be done without a change
of abode. — " Since the idea had been started in the very
quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple,"
he said, " in confessing his judgment to be entirely on
that side. It did not appear to him that Sir Walter
could materially alter his style of living in a house which
had such a character of hospitality and ancient dignity
to support. — In any other place. Sir Walter might judge
for himself; and would be looked up to, as regulating
the modes of life, in whatever way he might choose to
odel his household."
Sir Walter would quit Kellynch-hall ; — and after a very
w days more of doubt and indecision, the great question
whither he should go, was settled, and the first outline
of this important change made out.
There had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or
another
( 14 >
another house in the country. All Anne's wishes had been
for the latter. A small house in their own neighbourhood,
where they might still have Lady Russell's society, still
be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes
seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object
of her ambition. But the usual fate of Anne attended
her, in having something very opposite from her inclina-
tion fixed on. She disliked Bath, and did ijot think it
agreed with her — and Bath was to be her home.
Sir Walter had at first thought more of London, but
Mr. Shepherd felt that he could not be trusted in London,
and had been skilful enough to dissuade him from it, and
make Bath preferred. It was a much safer place for
a gentleman in his predicament : — he might there be
important at comparatively little expense. — Two material
advantages of Bath over London had of course been given
all their weight, its more convenient distance from
Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell's spending
some part of every winter there ; and to the very great
satisfaction of Lady Russell, whose first views on the
projected change had been for Bath, Sir Walter and
Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should lose
neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there.
Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's
known wishes. It would be too much to expect Sir
Walter to descend into a small house in his own neigh-
bourhood. Anne herself would have found the mortifica-
tions of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's
feelings they must have been dreadful. And with regard
to Anne's dislike of Bath, she considered it as a prejudice
and mistake, arising first from the circumstance of her
having been three years at school there, after her mother's
death, and, secondly, from her happening to be not in
perfectly good spirits the only winter which she had
Afterwards spent there with herself.
(^ Lady Russell was fond of Bath in short, and disposed
<r to think it must suit them all ,* and as to her young friend's
) health, by passing all the warm months with Ker at
Kellynch-
I
( 15 )
Kellynch-lodge, every danger would be avoided ; and it
was, in fact, a change which must do both health and
spirits good. Anne had been too little from home, too
little seen. Her spirits were not high. A larger society
would improve them. She wanted her to be more known.
The undesirableness of any other house in the same
neighbourhood for Sir Walter, was certainly much
strengthened by one part, and a very material part of
the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the
beginning. He was not only to quit his home, but to see
it in the hands of others : a trial of fortitude, which
stronger heads than Sir Walter's have found too much. —
Kellynch-hall was to be let. This, however, was a pro-
found secret ; not to be breathed beyond their own circle.
Sir Walter could not have borne the degradation of
being known to design letting his house. — Mr. Shepherd
had once mentioned the word, " advertise ; " — but never
dared approach it again ; Sir Walter spurned the idea of
its being offered in any manner ; forbad the slightest hint
being dropped of his having such an intention ; and it
was only on the supposition of his being spontaneously
solicited by some most unexceptionable applicant, on his
own terms, and as a great favor, that he would let it at all.
How quick come the reasons for approving what we
like ! — Lady Russell had another excellent one at hand,
for being extremely glad that Sir Walter and his family
were to remove from the country. Elizabeth had been
lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see
interrupted. It was with a daughter of Mr. Shepherd,
who had returned, after an unprosperous marriage, to
her father's house, with the additional burthen of two
children. She was a clever young woman, who under-
stood the art of pleasing ; the art of pleasing, at least,
at Kellynch-hall ; and who had made herself so acceptable
to Miss Elliot, as to have been already staying there more
than once, in spite of all that Lady Russell, who thought
it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of caution
and reserve.
Lady
( 16 )
Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with
Elizabeth, and seemed to love her, rather because she
would love her, than because Elizabeth deserved it. She
had never received from her more than outward attention,
nothing beyond the observances of complaisance ; had
never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry,
against previous inclination. She had been repeatedly
very earnest in trying to get Anne included in the visit
to London, sensibly open to all the injustice and all the
discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut her out,
and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give
Elizabeth the advantage of her own better judgment and
experience — but always in vain ; Elizabeth would go her
own way — and never had she pursued it in more decided
opposition to Lady Russell, than in this selection of
Mrs. Clay ; turning from the society of so deserving a
sister to bestow her affection and confidence on one who
ought to have been nothing to her but the object of distant
civility.
From situation, Mrs. Clay was, in Lady Russell's
estimate, a very unequal, and in her character she believed
a very dangerous companion — and a removal that would
leave Mrs. Clay behind, and bring a choice of more suitable
intimates within Miss Elliot's reach, was therefore an
object of first-rate importance.
CHAP-
( n )
CHAPTER III.
" I MUST take leave to observe, Sir Walter," said
Mr. Shepherd one morning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid
doAvn the newspaper, " that the present juncture is much
in our favour. This peace will be turning all our rich
Navy Officers ashore. They will be all wanting a home.
Could not be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice
of tenants, very responsible tenants. Many a noble
fortune has been made during the war. If a rich Admiral
were to come in our way. Sir Walter — "
" He would be a very lucky man, Shepherd," replied
Sir Walter, " that 's all I have to remark. A prize indeed
would Kellynch Hall be to him ; rather the greatest
prize of all, let him have taken ever so many before — hey,
Shepherd ? "
Mr. Shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit,
and then added,
" I presume to observe. Sir Walter, that, in the way of
business, gentlemen of the navy are well to deal with.
I have had a little knowledge of their methods of doing
business, and I am free to confess that they have very
liberal notions, and are as likely to make desirable
tenants as any set of people one should meet with. There-
fore, Sir Walter, what I would take leave to suggest is,
that if in consequence of any rimiours getting abroad of
your intention — which must be contemplated as a possible
thing, because we know how difficult it is to keep the
actions and designs of one part of the world from the
notice and curiosity of the other, — consequence has its
tax — I, John Shepherd, might conceal any family-
matters that I chose, for nobody would think it worth
their while to observe me, but Sir Walter Elhot has eyes
upon him which it may be very difficult to elude — and
therefore, thus much I venture upon, that it will not
greatly
( 18 )
greatly surprise me if, with all our caution, some rumour
of the truth should get abroad — in the supposition of
which, as I was going to observe, since applications will
unquestionably follow, I should think any from our
wealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending
to — and beg leave to add, that two hours will bring me
over at any time, to save you the trouble of replying,"
Sir Walter only nodded. But soon afterwards, rising
and pacing the room, he observed sarcastically,
" There are few among the gentlemen of the navy,
I imagine, who would not be surprised to find themselves
in a house of this description.'*
" They would look around them, no doubt, and bless
their good fortune," said Mrs. Clay, for Mrs. Clay was
present ; her father had driven her over, nothing being of
so much use to Mrs. Clay's health as a drive to Kellynch :
" but I quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor
might be a very desirable tenant. I have known a good
deal of the profession ; and besides their liberality, they
are so neat and careful in all their ways ! These valuable
pictures of yours. Sir Walter, if you chose to leave them,
would be perfectly safe. Every thing in and about the
house would be taken such excellent care of ! the gardens
and shrubberies would be kept in almost as high order
as they are now. You need not be afraid, Miss Elliot,
of your own sweet flower-garden's being neglected."
"As to all that," rejoined Sir Walter coolly, " sup-
posing I were induced to let my house, I have by no means
made up my mind as to the privileges to be annexed to
it. I am not particularly disposed to favour a tenant.
The park would be open to him of course, and few navy
officers, or men of any other description, can have had
such a range; but what restrictions I might impose on
the use of the pleasure-grounds, is another thing. I am
not fond of the idea of my shrubberies being always
approachable ; and I should recommend Miss Elliot to be
on her guard with respect to her flower-garden. I am very
little disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any
extraordinary
( 19 )
extraordinary favour, I assure you, be he sailor or
soldier."
After a short pause, Mr. Shepherd presumed to say,
" In all these cases, there are established usages which
make every thing plain and easy between landlord and
tenant. Your interest, Sir Walter, is in pretty safe hands.
Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant has more
than his just rights. I venture to hint, that Sir Walter
Elliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John
Shepherd will be for him."
Here Anne spoke, —
" The navy, I think, who have done so much for us,
have at least an equal claim with any other set of men, for
all the comforts and all the privileges which any home
can give. Sailors work hard enough for their comforts,
we must all allow."
" Very true, very true. What Miss Anne says, is very
true," was Mr. Shepherd's rejoinder, and " Oh ! cer-
tainly," was his daughter's ; but Sir Walter's remark
was, soon afterwards —
" The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry
to see any friend of mine belonging to it."
" Indeed ! " was the reply, and with a look of surprise.
" Yes ; it is in two points offensive to me ; I have
two strong grounds of objection to it. First, as being
the means of bringing persons of obscure birth into undue
distinction, and raising men to honours which their fathers
and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it
cuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly ; a sailor
grows old sooner than any other man ; I have observed
it all my life. A man is in greater danger in the navy of
being insulted by the rise of one whose father, his father
might have disdained to speak to, and of becoming
prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any
other line. One day last spring, in town, I was in company
with two men, striking instances of what I am talking of,
Lord St. Ives, whose father we all know to have been
a country curate, without bread to eat ; I was to give
place
( 20 )
place to Lord St. Ives, and a certain Admiral Bald^\an,
the most deplorable looking personage you can imagine,
his face the colour of mahogany, rough and rugged to
the last degree, all lines and wrinkles, nine grey hairs of
a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top. — ' In
the name of heaven, who is that old fellow ? ' said I, to
a friend of mine who was standing near, (Sir Basil Morley.)
' Old fellow ! ' cried Sir Basil, ' it is Admiral Baldwin.
What do you take his age to be ? ' ' Sixty,' said I, * or
perhaps sixty-two.* ' Forty,' replied Sir Basil, ' forty,
and no more.' Picture to yourselves my amazement ;
I shall not easily forget Admiral Baldwin. I never saw
quite so wretched an example of what a sea-faring life
can do ; but to a degree, I know it is the same with them
all : they are all knocked about, and exposed to every
climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be
seen. It is a pity they are not knocked on the head at
once, before they reach Admiral Baldwin's age."
" Nay, Sir Walter," cried Mrs. Clay, " this is being
severe indeed. Have a little mercy on the poor men.
We are not all born to be handsome. The sea is no
beautifier, certainly ; sailors do grow old betimes ; I
have often observed it ; they soon lose the look of youth.
But then, is not it the same with many other professions,
perhaps most other ? Soldiers, in active service, are not
at all better off : and even in the quieter professions,
there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the body,
which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect
of time. The lawyer plods, quite care-worn ; the physician
is up at all hours, and travelling in all weather ; and
even the clergyman — • " she stopt a moment to consider
what might do for the clergyman ; — *' and even the clergy-
man, you know, is obliged to go into infected rooms, and
expose his health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous
atmosphere. In fact, as I have long been convinced,
though every profession is necessary and honourable in
its turn, it is only the lot of those who are not obliged
to follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the
country,
( 21 )
I
^Bbuntry, choosing their own hours, following their own
^^ursuits, and living on their own property, without the
torment of trying for more ; it is only their lot, I say, to
hold the blessings of health and a good appearance to
the utmost : I know no other set of men but what lose
something of their personableness when they cease to be
quite young."
It seemed as if Mr. Shepherd, in this anxiety to bespeak
Sir Walter's goodwill towards a naval officer as tenant,
had been gifted with foresight ; for the very first applica-
tion for the house was from an Admiral Croft, with whom
he shortly afterwards fell into company in attending the
quarter sessions at Taunton ; and indeed, he had received
a hint of the admiral from a London correspondent. By
the report which he hastened over to Kellynch to make.
Admiral Croft was a native of Somersetshire, who having
acquired a very handsome fortune, was wishing to settle
in his own country, and had come down to Taunton in
order to look at some advertised places in that immediate
neighbourhood, which, however, had not suited him ;
that accidentally hearing — (it was just as he had foretold,
Mr. Shepherd observed. Sir Walter's concerns could not
be kept a secret,) — accidentally hearing of the possibility
of Kellynch Hall being to let, and understanding his
(Mr. Shepherd's) connection with the owner, he had
introduced himself to him in order to make particular
inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long con-
ference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place
as a man who knew it only by description, could feel ;
and given Mr. Shepherd, in his explicit account of himself,
every proof of his being a most responsible, eligible
tenant.
" And who is Admiral Croft ? " was Sir Walter's cold
suspicious inquiry.
Mr. Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman's
family, and mentioned a place ; and Anne, after the
little pause which followed, added —
" He is rear admiral of the white. He was in the
178L6 T Trafalgar
( 22 )
Trafalgar action, and has been in the East Indies since ;
he has been stationed there, I beUeve, several years."
" Then I take it for granted," observed Sir Walter,
" that his face is about as orange as the cuffs and capes
of my livery."
Mr. Shepherd hastened to assure him, that Admiral
Croft was a very hale, hearty, well-looking man, a little
weather-beaten, to be sure, but not much ; and quite
the gentleman in all his notions and behaviour ; — not
likely to make the smallest difficulty about terms ; — only
wanted a comfortable home, and to get into it as soon as
possible ; — ^knew he must pay for his convenience ; —
knew what rent a ready-furnished house of that con-
sequence might fetch ; — should not have been sur-
prised if Sir Walter had asked more ; — had inquired
about the manor ; — would be glad of the deputation,
certainly, but made no great point of it ; — said he some-
times took out a gun, but never killed ; — quite the
gentleman.
Mr. Shepherd was eloquent on the subject ; pointing
out all the circumstances of the admiral's family, which
made him peculiarly desirable as a tenant. He was
a married man, and without children ; the very state
to be wished for. A house was never taken good care
of, Mr. Shepherd observed, without a lady : he did not
know, whether furniture might not be in danger of suffer-
ing as much where there was no lady, as where there were
many children. A lady, without a family, was the very
best preserver of furniture in the world. He had seen
Mrs. Croft, too ; she was at Taunton with the admiral,
and had been present almost all the time they were talking
the matter over.
"And a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she
seemed to be," continued he ; " asked more questions
about the house, and terms, and taxes, than the admiral
himself, and seemed more conversant with business. And
moreover. Sir Walter, I found she was not quite uncon-
nected in this country, any more than her husband ;
that
( 23 )
that is to say, she is sister to a gentleman who did live
amongst us once ; she told me so herself : sister to the
gentleman who lived a few years back, at Monkford.
Bless me ! what was his name ? At this moment I
cannot recollect his name, though I have heard it so
lately. Penelope, my dear, can you help me to the name
of the gentleman who lived at Monkford — Mrs. Croft's
brother ? "
But Mrs. Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot,
that she did not hear the appeal.
" I have no conception whom you can mean, Shepherd ;
I remember no gentleman resident at Monkford since the
time of old Governor Trent."
" Bless me ! how very odd ! I shall forget my own
name soon, I suppose. A name that I am so very well
acquainted with ; knew the gentleman so well by sight ;
seen him a hundred times ; came to consult me once,
I remember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours ;
farmer's man breaking into his orchard — wall torn down —
apples stolen — caught in the fact ; and afterwards,
contrary to my judgment, submitted to an amicable
compromise. Very odd indeed ! "
After waiting another moment —
" You mean Mr. Wentworth, I suppose," said Anne.
Mr. Shepherd was all gratitude.
" Wentworth was the very name ! Mr. Wentworth
was the very man. He had the curacy of Monkford, you
know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two or three years.
Came there about the year — 5, I take it. You rem.ember
him, I am sure."
" Wentworth ? Oh ! ay, — Mr. Wentworth, the curate
of Monkford. You misled me by the term gentleman.
I thought you were speaking of some man of property :
Mr. Wentworth was nobody, I remember ; quite un-
connected ; nothing to do with the Strafford family. One
wonders how the names of many of our nobility become
so common."
As Mr. Shepherd perceived that this connexion of the
T 2 Crofts
( 2* )
Crofts did them no service with Sir Walter, he mentioned
it no more ; returning, with all his zeal, to dwell on the
circumstances more indisputably in their favour ; their
age, and number, and fortune ; the high idea they had
formed of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the
advantage of renting it ; making it appear as if they
ranked nothing beyond the happiness of being the tenants
of Sir Walter Elliot : an extraordinary taste, certainly,
could they have be^n supposed in the secret of Sir Walter's
estimate of the dues of a tenant.
It succeeded, however ; and though Sir Walter must
ever look with an evil eye on any one intending to inhabit
that house, and think them infinitely too well off in being
permitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked
into allowing Mr. Shepherd to proceed in the treaty, and
authorising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still
remained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being
seen.
Sir Walter was not very wise ; but still he had experi-
ence enough of the world to feel, that a more unobjection-
able tenant, in all essentials, than Admiral Croft bid fair
to be, could hardly offer. So far went his understanding ;
and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in
the admiral's situation in life, which was just high enough,
and not too high. " I have let my house to Admiral
Croft," would sound extremely well ; very much better
than to any mere Mr. ; a Mr. (save, perhaps, some
half dozen in the nation.) always needs a note of explana-
tion. An admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at
the same time, can never make a baronet look small. In
all their dealings and intercourse. Sir Walter Elliot must
ever have the precedence.
Nothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth ;
but her inclination was growing so strong for a removal,
that she was happy to have it fixed and expedited by
a tenant at hand ; and not a word to suspend decision
was uttered by her.
Mr. Shepherd was completely empowered to act ; and
no
( 25 )
no sooner had such an end been reached, than Anne,
who had been a most attentive Hstener to the whole,
left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her
^flushed cheeks ; and as she walked along a favourite
fgrove, said, with a gentle sigh, " a few months more, and
he^ perhaps, may be walking here."
CHAP-
CHAPTER IV.
He was not Mr. Wentworth, the former curate of Monk-
ford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a
captain Frederick Wentworth, his brother, who being
made commander in consequence of the action off
St. Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come
into Somersetshire, in the summer of 1806 ; and having
no parent living, found a home for half a year, at Monk-
ford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young
man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit and brilhancy ;
and Anne an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness,
modesty, taste, and feeling. — Half the sum of attraction,
on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing
to do, and she had hardly any body to love ; but the
encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail.
They were gradually acquainted, and when acquainted,
rapidly and deeply in love. It would be difficult to say
which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which
had been the happiest ; she, in receiving his declarations
and proposals, or he in having them accepted.
A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but
a short one. — Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being
applied to, without actually withholding his consent, or
saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great
astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a pro-
fessed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He
thought it a very degrading alliance ; and Lady Russell,
though with more tempered and pardonable pride,
received it as a most unfortunate one.
Anne EUiot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and
mind, to throw herself away at nineteen ; involve herself
at nineteen in an engagement with a young man, who
had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hopes
of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncer-
tain
( 27 )
tain profession, and no connexions to secure even his
farther rise in that profession ; would be, indeed, a
throwing away, which she grieved to think of ! Anne
ElHot, so young ; known to so few, to be snatched off
by a stranger without aUiance or fortune ; or rather sunk
by him into a state of most wearing, anxious, youth-__^
kiUing dependance ! It must not be, if by any fair |
interference of friendship, any representations from one I
who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it--^
would be prevented.
Captain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been
lucky in his profession, but spending freely, what had
come freely, had realized nothing. But, he was confident
that he should soon be rich ; — full of life and ardour, he
knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on
a station that would lead to every thing he wanted. He
ad always been lucky ; he knew he should be so still. —
Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and be-
witching in the wit which often expressed it, must have
been enough for Anne ; but Lady Russell saw it very
differently. — His sanguine temper, and fearlessness of
mind, operated very differently on her. She saw in it
but an aggravation of the evil. It only added a dangerous ^-^
character to himself. He was brilliant, he was headstrong. /
— Lady Russell had little taste for wit ; and of any thing ^
approaching to imprudence a horror. She deprecated ly
the connexion in every light.
Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more .,X^
than Anne could combat. Young and gentle as she was,
it might yet have been possible to withstand her father's
ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word or look on
the part of her sister ; — but Lady Russell, whom she had
always loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness -
of opinion, and such tenderness of manner, be continually
advising her in vain. She was persuaded to believe the
engagement a wrong thing — indiscreet, improper, hardly
capable of success, and not deserving it. But it was not
a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting
an
( 9S )
an end to it. Had she not imagined herself consulting
his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have
given him up. — The belief of being prudent, and self-
denying principally for his advantage, was her chief
consolation, under the misery of a parting — a final
parting ; and every consolation was required, for she had
to encounter all the additional pain of opinions, on his
side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his
feeling himself ill-used by so forced a relinquishment. — He
had left the country in consequence.
A few months had seen the beginning and the end of
their acquaintance ; but, not with a few months ended
Anne's share of suffering from it. Her attachment and
regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of
youth ; and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been
their lasting effect.
More than seven years were gone since this little history
of sorrowful interest had reached its close ; and time had
softened down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar
attachment to him, — but she had been too dependant
on time alone ; no aid had been given in change of place,
(except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture,) or
in any novelty or enlargement of society. — No one had
ever come within the Kellynch circle, who could bear
a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he stood in
her memorj^ No second attachment, the only thoroughly
natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life,
had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the
fastidiousness of her taste, in the small limits of the society
around them. She had been solicited, when about two-
and-twenty, to change her name, by the young man, who
not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her
younger sister ; and Lady Russell had lamented her
refusal ; for Charles Musgrove was the eldest son of
a man, whose landed property and general importance,
were second, in that country, only to Sir Walter's, and of
good character and appearance ; and however Lady
Russell might have asked yet for something more, while
Anne
( 29 )
Anne was nineteen, she would have rejoiced to see her
at twenty-two, so respectably removed from the partialities
and injustice of her father's house, and settled so per-
manently near herself. But in this case, Anne had left
nothing for advice to do ; and though Lady Russell, as
satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished
the past undone, she began now to have the anxiety
which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted,
by some man of talents and independence, to enter
a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by
her warm affections and domestic habits.
They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy
or its change, on the one leading point of Anne's conduct,
for the subject was never alluded to, — but Anne, at seven
and twenty, thought very differently from what she had
been made to think at nineteen. — She did not blame
Lady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been
guided by her ; but she felt that were any young person,
in similar circumstances, to apply to her for counsel,
they would never receive any of such certain immediate
wretchedness, such uncertain future good. — She was
persuaded that under every disadvantage of disapproba-
tion at home, and every anxiety attending his profession,
all their probable fears, delays and disappointments, she
should yet have been a happier woman in maintaining
the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it ;
and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even
more than a usual share of all such solicitudes and sus-
pense been theirs, without reference to the actual results
of their case, which, as it happened, would have bestowed
earlier prosperity than could be reasonably calculated on.
All his sanguine expectations, all his confidence had been
justified. His genius and ardour had seemed to foresee
and to command his prosperous path. He had, very
soon after their engagement ceased, got employ ; and all
that he had told her would follow, had taken place. He
had distinguished himself, and early gained the other step
in rank — and must now, by successive captures, have
made
( 30 )
made a handsome fortune. She had only navy lists arid
newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt
his being rich ; — and, in favour of his constancy, she had
no reason to believe him married.
How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been, — how
eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early
warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity,
against that over- anxious caution which seems to insult
exertion and distrust Providence ! — She had been forced
into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she
grew older — the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.
With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings,
she could not hear that Captain Wentworth's sister was
likely to live at Kellynch, without a revival of former pain ;
and many a stroll and many a sigh were necessary to
dispel the agitation of the idea. She often told herself
it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently
to feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their
business no evil. She was assisted, however, by that
perfect indifference and apparent unconsciousness, among
the only three of her own friends in the secret of the past,
which seemed almost to deny any recollection of it. She
could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's
motives in this, over those of her father and Elizabeth ;
she could honour all the better feelings of her calmness —
but the general air of oblivion among them was highly
important, from whatever it sprung ; and in the event
of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch- hall, she
rejoiced anew over the conviction which had always been
most grateful to her, of the past being known to those
three only among her connexions, by whom no syllable,
she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust
that among his, the brother only with whom he had been
residing, had received any information of their short-lived
engagement. — ^That brother had been long removed from
the country — and being a sensible man, and, moreover,
a single man at the time, she had a fond dependance on
no human creature's having heard of it from him.
The
( 31 )
The sister, Mrs. Croft, had then been out of England,
accompanying her husband on a foreign station, and her
own sister, Mary, had been at school while it all occurred —
and never admitted by the pride of some, and the delicacy
of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards.
With these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance
between herself and the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell,
still resident in Kellynch, and Mary fixed only three miles
off, must be anticipated, need not involve any particular
awkwardness.
CHAP-
CHAPTER V.
On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs. Croft's
seeing Kellynch-hall, Anne found it most natural to take
her almost daily walk to Lady Russell's, and keep out
of the way till all was over ; when she found it most
natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of
seeing them.
This meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfac-
tory, and decided the whole business at once. Each lady
was previously well disposed for an agreement, and saw
nothing, therefore, but good manners in the other ; and,
with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty
good humour, such an open, trusting liberality on the
Admiral's side, as could not but influence Sir AValter, who
had besides been flattered into his very best and most
polished behaviour by Mr. Shepherd's assurances of his
being known, by report, to the Admiral, as a model of
good breeding.
The house and grounds, and furniture, were approved,
the Crofts were approved, terms, time, every thing, and
every body, was right ; and Mr. Shepherd's clerks were
set to work, without there having been a single preliminary
difference to modify of all that " This indenture sheweth.'*
Sir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral
to be the best-looking sailor he had ever met with, and
went so far as to say, that, if his own man might have
had the arranging of his hair, he should not be ashamed
of being seen with him any where ; and the Admiral,
with sympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they
drove back through the Park, " I thought we should
soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite of what they told
us at Taunton. The baronet will never set the Thames on
fire, but there seems no harm in him : " — reciprocal com-
pliments, which would have been esteemed about equal.
The
( 33 )
The Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas, and
as Sir Walter proposed removing to Bath in the course
of the preceding month, there was no time to be lost in
making every dependant arrangement.
Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be
allowed to be of any use, or any importance, in the choice
of the house which they were going to secure, was very
unwilling to have her hurried away so soon, and wanted
to make it possible for her to stay behind, till she might
convey her to Bath herself after Christmas ; but having
engagements of her own, which must take her from
Kellynch for several weeks, she was unable to give the
full invitation she wished ; and Anne, though dreading
the possible heats of September in all the white glare of
Bath, and grieving to forego all the influence so sweet
and so sad of the autumnal months in the country, did
not think that, every thing considered, she wished to
remain. It would be most right, and most wise, and,
therefore, must involve least suffering, to go with the
others.
Something occurred, however, to give her a different
duty. Mary, often a little unwell, and always thinking
a great deal of her own complaints, and always in the
habit of claiming Anne when any thing was the matter,
was indisposed ; and foreseeing that she should not have
a day's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather
required her, for it was hardly entreaty, to come to Upper-
cross Cottage, and bear her company as long as she
should want her, instead of going to Bath.
" I cannot possibly do without Anne," was Mary's
reasoning ; and Elizabeth's reply was, " Then I am sure
Anne had better stay, for nobody will want her in Bath."
To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style,
is at least better than being rejected as no good at all ;
and Anne, glad to be thought of some use, glad to have
any thing marked out as a duty, and certainly not sorry
to have the scene of it in the country, and her own dear
country, readily agreed to stay.
This
wIP
( 34 )
This invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's
difficulties, and it was consequently soon settled that
Anne should not go to Bath till Lady Russell took her,
and that all the intervening time should be divided
between Uppercross Cottage and Kelly nch- lodge.
So far all was perfectly right ; but Lady Russell was
almost startled by the wrong of one part of the Kellynch-
hall plan, when it burst on her, which was, Mrs. Clay's
being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and Elizabeth,
as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter
in all the business before her. Lady Russell was extremely
sorry that such a measure should have been resorted to
at all — wondered, grieved, and feared — and the affront
it contained to Anne, in Mrs. Clay's being of so much use,
while Anne could be of none, was a very sore aggravation.
Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts ;
but she felt the imprudence of the arrangement quite as
keenly as Lady Russell. With a great deal of quiet
observation, and a knowledge, which she often wished
less, of her father's character, she was sensible that
results the most serious to his family from the intimacy,
were more than possible. She did not imagine that her
father had at present an idea of the kind. Mrs. Clay
had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a clumsy wrist,
which he was continually making severe remarks upon,
in her absence ; but she was young, and certainly alto-
gether well-looking, and possessed, in an acute mind and
assiduous pleasing manners, infinitely more dangerous
attractions than any merely personal might have been.
Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that
she could not excuse herself from trying to make it per-
ceptible to her sister. She had little hope of success ;
but Elizabeth, who in the event of such a reverse would
be so much more to be pitied than herself, should never,
she thought, have reason to reproach her for giving no
warning.
She spoke, and seemed only to offend. Elizabeth could
not conceive how such an absurd suspicion should occur
to
( 35 )
to her ; and indignantly answered for each party's
perfectly knowing their situation.
" Mrs. Clay," said she warmly, " never forgets who she
is ; and as I am rather better acquainted with her senti-
ments than you can be, I can assure you, that upon the
subject of marriage they are particularly nice ; and that
she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more
strongly than most people. And as to my father, I really
should not have thought that he, who has kept himself
single so long for our sakes, need be suspected now. If
Mrs. Clay were a very beautiful woman, I grant you, it
might be wrong to have her so much with me ; not that
any thing in the world, I am sure, would induce my
father to make a degrading match ; but he might be
rendered unhappy. But poor Mrs. Clay, who, with all
her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably
pretty ! 1 really think poor Mrs. Clay may be staying
here in perfect safety. One would imagine you had never
heard my father speak of her personal misfortunes,
though I know you must fiftjtlimes. That tooth of her's !
and those freckles ! Freckles do not disgust me so very
much as they do him : I have known a face not materially
disfigured by a few, but he abominates them. You must
have heard him notice Mrs. Clay's freckles."
" There is hardly any personal defect," replied Anne,
" which an agreeable manner might not gradually recon-
cile one to."
" I think very differently," answered Elizabeth,
shortly ; " an agreeable manner may set off handsome
features, but can never alter plain ones. However, at
any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this
point than any body else can have, I think it rather
unnecessary in you to be advising me."
Anne had done — glad that it was over, and not abso-
lutely hopeless of doing good. Elizabeth, though resenting
the suspicion, might yet be made observant by it.
The last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw
Sir Walter, Miss EUiot, and Mrs. Clay to Bath. The party
drove
( 36 )
drove off in very good spirits ; Sir Walter prepared with
condescending bows for all the afflicted tenantry and
cottagers who might have had a hint to shew themselves :
and Anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate
tranquillity, to the Lodge, where she was to spend the
first week.
Her friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady
Russell felt this break-up of the family exceedingly.
Their respectability was as dear to her as her own ; and
a daily intercourse had become precious by habit. It was
painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still
worse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into ;
and to escape the solitariness and the melancholy of so
altered a village, and be out of the way when Admiral
and Mrs. Croft first arrived, she had determined to make
her own absence from home begin when she must give up
Anne. Accordingly their removal was made together, and
Anne was set down at Uppercross Cottage, in the fhrst
stage of Lady Russell's journey.
Uppercross was a moderate- sized village, which a few
years back had been completely in the old English style ;
containing only two houses superior in appearance to
those of the yeomen and labourers, — the mansion of the
'squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees,
substantial and unmodernized — and the compact, tight
parsonage, enclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine
and a pear-tree trained round its casements ; but upon
the marriage of the young 'squire, it had received the
improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage for
his residence ; and Uppercross Cottage, with its viranda,
French windows, and other prettinesses, was quite as
likely to catch the traveller's eye, as the more consistent
and considerable aspect and premises of the Great House,
about a quarter of a mile farther on.
Here Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways
of Uppercross as well as those of Kellynch. The two
families were so continually meeting, so much in the habit
of running in and out of each other's house at all hours,
that
' ( 37 )
that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary alone ;
but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits, was
almost a matter of course. Though better endowed than the
elder sister, Mary had not Anne's understanding or temper.
While well, and happy, and properly attended to, she had
great good humour and excellent spirits ; but any indispo-
sition sunk her completely ; she had no resources for
solitude ; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot
self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress
that of fancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person,
she was inferior to both sisters, and had, even in her
bloom, only reached the dignity of being " a fine girl."
She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty little
drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had
been gradually growing shabby, under the influence of
four summers and two children ; and, on Anne's appear-
ing, greeted her with,
" So, you are come at last ! I began to think I should
never see you. I am so ill I can hardly speak. I have
not seen a creature the whole morning ! "
" I am sorry to find you unwell," replied Anne. '' You
sent me such a good account of yourself on Thursday ! "
" Yes, I made the best of it ; I always do ; but I was
very far from well at the time ; and I do not think I ever
was so ill in my life as I have been all this morning — very
unfit to be left alone, I am sure. Suppose I were to be
seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not able
to ring the bell ! So, Lady Russell would not get out.
I do not think she has been in this house three times
this summer."
Anne said what was proper, and enquired after her
husband. " Oh ! Charles is out shooting. I have not
seen him since seven o'clock. He would go, though I told
him how ill I was. He said he should not stay out long ;
but he has never come back, and now it is almost one.
I assure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long
morning."
" You have had your little boys with you ? "
1781.5 ^ " Yes^
( 38 )
** Yes, as long as I could bear their noise ; but they are
so unmanageable that they do me more harm than good.
Little Charles does not mind a word I say, and Walter
is growing quite as bad."
" Well, you will soon be better now," replied Anne,
cheerfully. " You know I always cure you when I come.
How are your neighbours at the Great House ? "
" I can give you no account of them. I have not seen
one of them to-day, except Mr. Musgrove, who just
stopped and spoke through the window, but without
getting off his horse ; and though I told him how ill I was,
not one of them have been near me. It did not happen
to suit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never
put them.selves out of their way."
*' You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning
is gone. It is early."
" I never want them, I assure you. They talk and laugh
a great deal too much for me. Oh ! Anne, I am so very
unwell ! It was quite unkind of you not to come on
Thursday."
" My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account
you sent me of yourself ! You wrote in the cheerfullest
manner, and said you were perfectly well, and in no
hurry for me ; and that being the case, you must be
aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady
Russell to the last : and besides what I felt on her
account, I have really been so busy, have had so much
to do, that I could not very conveniently have left
Kellynch sooner."
" Dear me ! what can you possibly have to do ? "
" A great many things, I assure you. More than I can
recollect in a moment : but I can tell you some. I have
been making a duplicate of the catalogue of my father's
books and pictures. I have been several times in the
garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make
him understand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady
Russell. I have had all my own little concerns to arrange
— ^books and music to divide, and all my trunks to repack,
from
( 39 )■
from not having understood in time what was intended
as to the waggons. And one thing I have had to do,
Mary, of a more trying nature ; going to almost every
house in the parish, as a sort of take-leave. I was told
that they wished it. But all these things took up a great
deal of time."
" Oh ! well ; " — and after a moment's pause, " But
you have never asked me one word about our dinner at
the Pooles yesterday."
" Did you go then ? I have made no enquiries, because
I concluded you must have been obliged to give up the
party."
" Oh ! yes, I went. I was very well yesterday ; nothing
at all the matter with me till this morning. It would have
been strange if I had not gone."
" I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope
you had a pleasant party."
" Nothing remarkable. One always knows beforehand
what the dinner will be, and who will be there. And it
is so very uncomfortable, not having a carriage of one's
own. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove took me, and we were
so crowded ! They are both so very large, and take up
so much room ! And Mr. Musgrove always sits forward.
So, there was I, crowded into the back seat with Henrietta
and Louisa. And I think it very likely that my illness
to-day may be owing to it."
A little farther perseverance in patience, and forced
cheerfulness on Anne's side, produced nearly a cure on
Mary's. She could soon sit upright on the sofa, and
began to hope she might be able to leave it by dinner-time.
Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end
of the room, beautifying a nosegay ; then, she ate her
cold meat ; and then she was well enough to propose
a little walk.
" Where shall we go ? " said she, when they were
ready. " I suppose you will not like to call at the Great
House before they have been to see you ? " *
" I have not the smallest objection on that account,"
u 2 replied
( 40 )
replied Anne. " I should never think of standing on such
ceremony with people I know so well as Mrs. and the
Miss Musgroves."
" Oh ! but they ought to call upon you as soon as
possible. They ought to feel what is due to you as my
sister. However, we may as well go and sit with them
a little while, and when we have got that over, we can
enjoy our walk."
Anne had always thought such a style of intercourse
highly imprudent ; but she had ceased to endeavour to
check it, from believing that, though there were on each
side continual subjects of offence, neither family could
now do without it. To the Great House accordingly
they went, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned
square parlour, with a small carpet and shining floor, to
which the present daughters of the house were gradually
giving the proper air of confusion by a grand piano forte
and a harp, flower- stands and little tables placed in
every direction. Oh ! could the originals of the portraits
against the wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown
velvet and the ladies in blue satin have seen what was
going on, have been conscious of such an overthrow of
all order and neatness ! The portraits themselves seemed
to be staring in astonishment.
The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of
alteration, perhaps of improvement. The father and
mother were in the old English style, and the young
people in the new. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove were a very
good sort of people ; friendly and hospitable, not much
educated, and not at all elegant. Their children had more
modern minds and manners. There was a numerous
family ; but the only two grown up, excepting Charles,
were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen and
twenty, who had brought from a school at Exeter all the
usual stock of accomplishments, and were now, like
thousands of other young ladies, living to be fashionable,
happy, and merry. Their dress had every advantage,
their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely
good,
( 41 )
good, their manners unembarrassed and pleasant ; they
were of consequence at home, and favourites abroad.
Anne always contemplated them as some of the happiest
creatures of her acquaintance ; but still, saved as we all
are by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing
for the possibility of exchange, she would not have given
up her own more elegant and cultivated mind for all their
enjoyments ; and envied them nothing but that seemingly
perfect good understanding and agreement together, that
good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known
so little herself with either of her sisters.
They were received with great cordiality. Nothing
seemed amiss on the side of the Great House family,
which was generally, as Anne very well knew, the least
to blame. The half hour was chatted away pleasantly
enough ; and she was not at all surprised, at the end of
it, to have their walking party joined by both the Miss
Musgroves, at Mary's particular invitation.
CHAP-
( 42 )
CHAPTER VI.
Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn
that a removal from one set of people to another, though
at a distance of only three miles, will often include a total
change of conversation, opinion, and idea. She had never
been staying there before, without being struck by it,
or without wishing that other Elliots could have her
advantage in seeing how unknown, or unconsidered there,
were the affairs which at Kellynch-hall were treated as
of such general publicity and pervading interest ; yet,
with all this experiejice, she believed she must now submit
to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own
nothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary
for her ; — for certainly, coming as she did, with a heart
full of the subject which had been completely occupying
both houses in Kellynch for many weeks, she had expected
rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in
the separate, but very similar remark of Mr. and Mrs.
Musgrove — " So, Miss Anne, Sir Walter and your sister
are gone ; and what part of Bath do you think they will
settle in ? " and this, without much waiting for an
answer ; — or in the young ladies' addition of, "I hope
we shall be in Bath in the winter ; but remember, papa,
if we do go, we must be in a good situation — none of your
Queen-squares for us ! " or in the anxious supplement
from Mary, of " Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off,
wben you are all gone away to be happy at Bath ! "
She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in
future, and think with heightened gratitude of the
J extraordinary blessing of having one such truly sympa-
I thising friend as Lady Russell.
[^^ The Mr. Musgroves had their own game to guard, and
to destroy ; their own horses, dogs, and newspapers to
engage them ; and the females were fully occupied in
all
( 43 )
all the other common subjects of house-keeping, neigh-
bours, dress, dancing, and music. She acknowledged it
to be very fitting, that every little social commonwealth
should dictate its own matters of discourse ; and hoped,
ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the one
she was now transplanted into. — With the prospect of
spending at least two months at Uppercross, it was
highly incumbent on her to clothe her imagination, her
memory, and all her ideas in as much of Uppercross as
possible.
She had no dread of these two months. Mary was not
so repulsive and unsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible
to all influence of hers ; neither was there any thing
among the other component parts of the cottage inimical
to comfort. — She was always on friendly terms with her
brother-in-law ; and in the children, who loved her nearly
as well, and respected her a great deal more than their
mother, she had an object of interest, amusement j and
wholesome exertion.
Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable ; in sense
and temper he was undoubtedly superior to his wife ;
but not of powers, or conversation, or grace, to make the
past, as they were connected together, at all a dangerous
contemplation ; though, at the same time, Anne could
believe, with Lady Russell, that a more equal match
might have greatly improved him ; and that a woman
of real understanding might have given more consequence
to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and
elegance to his habits and pursuits. As it was, he did
nothing with much zeal, but sport ; and his time was
otherwise trifled away, without benefit from books, or
any thing else. He had very good spirits, which never
seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness ;
bore with her unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's ad-
miration ; and, upon the whole, though there was very often
a little disagreement, (in which she had sometimes more
share than she wished, being appealed to by both parties)
they might pass for a happy couple. They were always
perfectly
{ 44 )
perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong
inclination for a handsome present from his father ; but
here, as on most topics, he had the superiority, for while
Mary thought it a great shame that such a present was
not made, he always contended for his father's having
many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it
as he liked.
As to the management of their children, his theory was
much better than his wife's, and his practice not so bad. —
" I could manage them very well, if it were not for Mary's
interference," — was what Anne often heard him say,
and had a good deal of faith in ; but when listening in
turn to Mary's reproach of " Charles spoils the children
so that I cannot get them into any order," — she never had
the smallest temptation to say, " Very true."
One of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence
there, was her being treated with too much confidence by
all parties, and being too much in the secret of the com-
plaints of each house. Known to have some influence
with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least
receiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable.
" I wish you could persuade Mary not to be always
^fancying herself ill," was Charles's language ; and, in an
Xunhappy mood, thus spoke Mary ; — " I do believe if
Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there
was any thing the matter with me. I am sure, Anne,
if you would, you might persuade him that I really am
very ill — a great deal worse than I ever own."
Mary's declaration was, " I hate sending the children
to the Great House, though their grandmamma is always
wanting to see them, for she humours and indulges them
to such a degree, and gives them so much trash and sweet
things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross
for the rest of the day." — And Mrs. Musgrove took the
first opportunity of being alone with Anne, to say, " Oh !
Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing Mrs. Charles had a little
of your method with those children. They are quite
different creatures with you ! But to be sure, in general
they
^
( 45 )
they are so spoilt ! It is a pity you cannot put your
sister in the way of managing them. They are as fine
healthy children as ever were seen, poor little dears,
without partiality ; but Mrs. Charles knows no more how
they should be treated ! — Bless me, how troublesome they
are sometimes ! — I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my
wishing to see them at our house so often as I otherwise
should. I believe Mrs. Charles is not quite pleased with
my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is very
bad to have children with one, that one is obliged to be
checking every moment ; ' don't do this, and don't do
that ; ' — or that one can only keep hi tolerable order by
more cake than is good for them."
She had this communication, moreover, from Mary.
" Mrs. Musgrove thinks all her servants so steady,^that
it would be high treason to call it in question ; but I am
sure, without exaggeration, that her upper house-maid
and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are
gadding about the village, all day long. I meet them
wherever I go ; and I declare, I never go twice into my
nursery without seeing something of them. If Jemima
were not the trustiest, steadiest creature in the world,
it would be enough to spoil her ; for she tells me, they
are always tempting her to take a walk with them."
And on Mrs. Musgrove's side, it was, — " I make a rule
of never interfering in any of my daughter-in-law's
concerns, for I know it would not do ; but I shall tell yoUy
Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to
rights, that I have no very good opinion of Mrs. Charles's
nursery-maid : I hear strange stories of her ; she is
always upon the gad : and from my own knowledge,
I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is
enough to ruin any servants she comes near. Mrs. Charles
quite swears by her, I know ; but I just give you this
hint, that you may be upon the watch ; because, if you
see any thing amiss, you need not be afraid of mention-
ing it."
Again ; it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs, Musgrove
was
( 46 )
was very apt not to give her the precedence that was her
due, when they dined at the Great House with other
famiHes ; and she did not see any reason why she was to
be considered so much at home as to lose her place. And
one day, when Anne was walking with only the Miss Mus-
groves, one of them, after talking of rank, people of rank,
and jealousy of rank, said, " I have no scruple of observing
to you, how nonsensical some persons are about their
place, because, all the world knows how easy and indifferent
you are about it : but I wish any body could give Mary
a hint that it would be a great deal better if she were not
so very tenacious ; especially, if she would not be always
putting herself forward to take place of mamma. Nobody
doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it
would be more becoming in her not to be always insisting
on it. It is not that mamma cares about it the least in the
world, but I know it is taken notice of by many persons."
How was Anne to set all these matters to rights ? She
could do little more than listen patiently, soften every
grievance, and excuse each to the other ; give them all
hints of the forbearance necessary between such nearneigh-
bours, and make those hints broadest which were meant
for her sister's benefit.
In all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very
well. Her own spirits improved by change of place and
subject, by being removed three miles from Kellynch :
Mary's ailments lessened by having a constant companion ;
and their daily intercourse with the other family, since
there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor
employment in the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was
rather an advantage. It was certainly carried nearly as
far as possible, for they met every morning, and hardly
ever spent an evening asunder ; but she believed they
should not have done so well without the sight of Mr. and
Mrs. Musgrove's respectable forms in the usual places,
or without the talking, laughing, and singing of their
daughters.
She played a great deal better than either of the
Miss
( 47 )
Miss Musgroves ; but having no voice, no knowledge of
the harp, and no fond parents to sit by and fancy them-
selves delighted, her performance was little thought of,
only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was
well aware. She knew that when she played she was
giving pleasure only to herself; but this was no new
sensation : excepting one short period of her life, she had
never, since the age of fourteen, never since the loss of
her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened
to, or encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste.
In music she had been always used to feel alone in the
world ; and Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove's fond partiality for
their own daughters' performance, and total indifference
to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for
their sakes, than mortification for her own.
The party at the Great House was sometimes increased
by other company. The neighbourhood was not large,
but the Musgroves were visited by every body, and had
more dinner parties, and more callers, more visitors by
invitation and by chance, than any other family. They
were more completely popular.
The girls were wild for dancing ; and the evenings
ended, occasionally, in an unpremeditated little ball.
There was a family of cousins within a walk of Uppercross,
in less affluent circumstances, who depended on the Mus-
groves for all their pleasures : they would come at any
time, and help play at any thing, or dance any where ;
and Anne, very much preferring the office of musician
to a more active post, played country dances to them by
the hour together ; a kindness which always recommended
her musical powers to the notice of Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove
more than any thing else, and often drew this compli-
ment ; — " Well done. Miss Anne ! very well done indeed !
Lord bless me ! how those little fingers of yours fly about! "
So passed the first three weeks. Michaelmas came ;
and now Anne's heart must be in Kellynch again. A
beloved home made over to others ; all the precious
rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to
own
( 48 )
own other eyes and other limbs ! She could not think of
much else on the 29th of September ; and she had this
sympathetic touch in the evening, from Mary, who, on
having occasion to note down the day of the month,
exclaimed, " Dear me ! is not this the day the Crofts
were to come to Kellynch ? I am glad I did not think of
it before. How low it makes me ! "
The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness,
and were to be visited. Mary deplored the necessity
for herself. '' Nobody knew how much she should suffer.
She should put it off as long as she could." But was not
easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on
an early day ; and was in a very animated, comfortable
state of imaginary agitation, when she came back. Anne
had very sincerely rejoiced in there being no means of
her going. She wished, however, to see the Crofts, and
was glad to be within when the visit was returned. They
came ; the master of the house was not at home, but the
two sisters were together ; and as it chanced that
Mrs. Croft fell to the share of Anne, while the admiral
sat by Mary, and made himself very agreeable by his
good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well
able to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the
features, to catch it in the voice, or the turn of sentiment
and expression.
Mrs. Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness,
uprightness, and vigour of form, which gave importance
to her person. She had bright dark eyes, good teeth,
and altogether an agreeable face ; though her reddened
and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her
having been almost as much at sea as her husband, made
her seem to have lived some years longer in the world
than her real eight and thirty. Her manners were open,
easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust of herself,
and no doubts of what to do ; without any approach to
coarseness, however, or any want of good humour. Anne
gave her credit, indeed, for feelings of great consideration
towards herself, in all that related to Kellynch ; and it
pleased
( 49 )
pleased her : especially, as she had satisfied herself in
the very first half minute, in the instant even of intro-
duction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any
knowledge or suspicion on Mrs. Croft's side, to give a bias
of any sort. She was quite easy on that head, and con-
sequently full of strength and courage, till for a moment
electrified by Mrs. Croft's suddenly saying, —
" It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother
had the pleasure of being acquainted with, when he was
in this country."
Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing ; but
the age of emotion she certainly had not.
" Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married,"
added Mrs. Croft.
She could now answer as she ought ; and was happy
to feel, when Mrs. Croft's next words explained it to be
Mr. Wentworth of whom she spoke, that she had said
nothing which might not do for either brother. She
immediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs. Croft
should be thinking and speaking of Edward, and not of
Frederick ; and with shame at her own forgetfulness,
applied herself to the knowledge of their former neigh-
bour's present state, with proper interest.
The rest was all tranquillity ; till just as they were
moving, she heard the admiral say to Mary,
'* We are expecting a brother of Mrs. Croft's here soon ;
I dare say you know him by name."
He was cut short by the eager attacks of the little
boys, clinging to him like an old friend, and declaring
he should not go ; and being too much engrossed by
proposals of carrying them away in his coat pocket, &c.
to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what
he had begun, Anne was left to persuade herself, as well
as she could, that the same brother must still be in ques-
tion. She could not, however, reach such a degree of
certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether any thing
had been said on the subject at the other house, where
the Crofts had previously been calling.
The
( 60 )
The folks of Great House were to spend the evening
of this day at the Cottage ; and it being now too late in
the year for such visits to be made on foot, the coach
was beginning to be listened for, when the youngest
Miss Musgrove walked in. That she was coming to
apologize, and that they should have to spend the evening
by themselves, was the first black idea ; and Mary was
quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa made all right
by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more
room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage.
" And I will tell you our reason," she added, " and all
about it. I am come on to give you notice, that papa and
mamma are out of spirits this evening, especially mamma ;
she is thinking so much of poor Richard ! And we agreed
it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse
her more than the piano-forte. I will tell you why she
is out of spirits. When the Crofts called this morning,
(they called here afterwards, did not they ?) they
happened to say, that her brother, Captain Wentworth,
is just returned to England, or paid off, or something, and
is coming to see them almost directly ; and most unluckily
it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that
Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of
poor Richard's captain, at one time, I do not know when
or where, but a great while before he died, poor fellow !
And upon looking over his letters and things, she found
it was so ; and is perfectly sure that this must be the very
man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard !
So we must all be as merry as we can, that she may not
be dwelling upon such gloomy things."
The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family
history were, that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of
a very troublesome, hopeless son ; and the good fortune
to lose him before he reached his twentieth year ; that he
had been sent to sea, because he was stupid and unmanage-
able on shore ; that he had been very little cared for
at any time by his family, though quite as much as he
deserved ; seldom heard of, and scarcely at all regretted,
when
( 51 )
when the intelligence of his death abroad had worked its
way to Uppercross, two years before.
He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all
they could for him, by calling him " poor Richard," been
nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable
Dick Musgrove, who had never done any thing to entitle
himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living
or dead.
He had been several years at sea, and had, in the course
of those removals to which all midshipmen are liable, and
especially such midshipmen as every captain wishes to
get rid of, been six months on board Captain Frederick
Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia ; and from the Laconia
he had, under the influence of his captain, written the
only two letters which his father and mother had ever
received from him during the whole of his absence ; that
is to say, the only two disinterested letters ; all the rest
had been mere applications for money.
In each letter he had spoken well of his captain ; but
yet, so little were they in the habit of attending to such
matters, so unobservant and incurious were they as to
the names of men or ships, that it had made scarcely any
impression at the time ; and that Mrs. Musgrove should
have been suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollec-
tion of the name of Wentworth, as connected with her
son, seemed one of those extraordinary bursts of mind
which do sometimes occur.
She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she
supposed ; and the reperusal of these letters, after so
long an interval, her poor son gone for ever, and all the
strength of his faults forgotten, had affected her spirits
exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for him
than she had known on first hearing of his death. Mr. Mus-
grove was, in a lesser degree, affected likewise ; and when
they reached the cottage, they were evidently in want,
first, of being listened to anew on this subject, and after-
wards, of all the relief which cheerful companions could
give.
To
( 52 )
To hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth,
repeating his name so often, puzzling over past years,
and at last ascertaining that it might, that it probably
would, turn out to be the very same Captain Wentworth
whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their
coming back from Clifton ; — a very fine young man ; but
they could not say whether it was seven or eight years
ago, — was a new sort of trial to Anne's nerves. She
found, however, that it was one to which she must enure
herself. Since he actually was expected in the country,
she must teach herself to be insensible on such points.
And not only did it appear that he was expected, and
speedily, but the Musgroves, in their warm gratitude for
the kindness he had shewn poor Dick, and very high
respect for his character, stamped as it was by poor
Dick's having been six months under his care, and
mentioning him in strong, though not perfectly well
spelt praise, as " a fine dashing felow, only two' perticular
about the school-master," were bent on introducing
themselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they
could hear of his arrival.
The resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort
of their evening.
CHAP-
( 53 )
CHAPTER VII.
VERY few days more, and Captain Wentworth was
known to be at Kellynch, and Mr. Musgrove had called
on him, and come back warm in his praise, and he was
engaged with the Crofts to dine at Uppercross, by the
end of another week. It had been a great disappointment
to Mr. Musgrove, to find that no earlier day could be
fixed, so impatient was he to shew his gratitude, by seeing
Captain Wentworth under his own roof, and welcoming
him to all that was strongest and best in his cellars. But
a week must pass ; only a week, in Anne's reckoning,
and then, she supposed, they must meet ; and soon she
began to wish that she could feel secure even for a week.
Captain Wentworth made a very early return to
Mr. Musgrove's civility, and she was all but calling there
in the same half hour ! — She and Mary were actually
setting forward for the great house, where, as she after-
wards learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when
they were stopped by the eldest boy's being at that
moment brought home in consequence of a bad fall. The
child's situation put the visit entirely aside, but she could
not hear of her escape with indifference, even in the midst
of the serious anxiety which they afterwards felt on his
account.
His collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such
injury received in the back, as roused the most alarming
ideas. It was an afternoon of distress, and Anne had
every thing to do at once — the apothecary to send for —
the father to have pursued and informed — ^the mother to
support and keep from hysterics — the servants to control
—the youngest child to banish, and the poor suffering
one to attend and soothe ; — besides sending, as soon as
she recollected it, proper notice to the other house, which
brought her an accession rather of frightened, enquiring
companions, than of very useful assistants.
1781.5 X Her
( 54 )
Her brother's return was the first comfort ; he could
take best care of his wife, and the second blessing was the
arrival of the apothecary. Till he came and had examined
the child, their apprehensions were the worse for being
vague ; — ^they suspected great injury, but knew not
where ; but now the collar-bone was soon replaced, and
though Mr. Robinson felt and felt, and rubbed, and looked
grave, and spoke low words both to the father and the
aunt, still they were all to hope the best, and to be able
to part and eat their dinner in tolerable ease of mind ;
and then it was, just before they parted, that the two
young aunts were able so far to digress from their nephew's
state, as to give the information of Captain Wentworth's
visit ; — staying five minutes behind their father and
mother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted
they were with him, how much handsomer, how infinitely
more agreeable they thought him than any individual
among their male acquaintance, who had been at all
a favourite before — how glad they had been to hear papa
invite him to stay dinner — how sorry when he said it
was quite out of his power — and how glad again, when he
had promised in reply to papa and mamma's farther
pressing invitations, to come and dine with them on the
morrow, actually on the morrow ! — And he had promised
it in so pleasant a manner, as if he felt all the motive of
their attention just as he ought ! — And, in short, he had
looked and said every thing with such exquisite grace,
that they could assure them all, their heads were both
turned by him ! — And off they ran, quite as full of glee
as of love, and apparently more full of Captain Wentworth
than of little Charles.
The same story and the same raptures were repeated,
when the two girls came with their father, through the
gloom of the evening, to make enquiries ; and Mr. Mus-
grove, no longer under the first uneasiness about his heir,
could add his confirmation and praise, and hope there
would be now no occasion for putting Captain Wentworth
off, and only be sorry to think that the cottage party,
probably.
( 55 )
probably, would not like to leave the little boy, to give
him the meeting. — " Oh, no ! as to leaving the little boy ! "
— both father and mother were in much too strong and
recent alarm to bear the thought ; and Anne, in the joy
of the escape, could not help adding her warm protesta-
tions to theirs.
Charles Musgrove, indeed, afterwards shewed more of in-
clination ; " the child was going on so well — and he wished
so much to be introduced to Captain Wentworth, that,
perhaps, he might join them in the evening ; he would
not dine from home, but he might walk in for half an hour."
But in this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with
" Oh, no ! indeed, Charles, I cannot bear to have you go
away. Only think, if any thing should happen ! "
The child had a good night, and was going on well the
next day. It must be a work of time to ascertain that no
injury had been done to the spine, but Mr. Robinson
found nothing to increase alarm, and Charles Musgrove
began consequently to feel no necessity for longer confine-
ment. The child was to be kept in bed, and amused as
quietly as possible ; but what was there for a father to
do ? This was quite a female case, and it would be highly
absurd in him, who could be of no use at home, to shut
himself up. His father very much wished him to meet
Captain Wentworth, and there being no sufficient reason
against it, he ought to go ; and it ended in his making
a bold public declaration, when he came in from shooting,
of his meaning to dress directly, and dine at the other
house.
" Nothing can be going on better than the child,"
said he, " so I told my father just now that I would come,
and he thought me quite right. Your sister being with
you, my love, I have no scruple at all. You would not
like to leave him yourself, but you see I can be of no use.
Anne will send for me if any thing is the matter."
Husbands and wives generally understand when
I opposition will be vain. Mary knew, from Charles's
manner of speaking, that he was quite determined on
X 2 going,
( 56 )
going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him. She
said nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but
as soon as there was only Anne to hear,
" So ! You and I are to be left to shift by ourselves,
with this poor sick child — and not a creature coming near
us all the evening ! I knew how it would be. This is
always my luck ! If there is any thing disagreeable going
on, men are always sure to get out of it, and Charles is
as bad as any of them. Very unfeeling ! I must say it
is very unfeeling of him, to be running away from his
poor Uttle boy ; talks of his being going on so well !
How does he know that he is going on well, or that there
may not be a sudden change half an hour hence ? I did
not think Charles would have been so unfeeling. So, here
he is to go away and enjoy himself, and because I am the
poor mother, I am not to be allowed to stir ; — and yet,
I am sure, I am more unfit than any body else to be about
the child. My being the mother is the very reason why
my feelings should not be tried. I am not at all equal
to it. You saw how hysterical I was yesterday."
" But that was only the effect of the suddenness of your
alarm — of the shock. You will not be hysterical again.
I dare say we shall have nothing to distress us. I perfectly
understand Mr. Robinson's directions, and have no fears ;
and indeed, Mary, I cannot wonder at your husband.
Nursing does not belong to a man, it is not his province.
A sick child is always the mother's proj^erty, her own
feelings generally make it so."
" I hope I am as fond of my child as any mother — but
I do not know that I am of any more use in the sick-room
than Charles, for I cannot be always scolding and teazing
a poor child when it is ill ; and you saw, this morning,
that if I told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin
kicking about. I have not nerves for the sort of thing."
" But, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending
the whole evening away from the poor boy ? "
" Yes ; you see his papa can, and why should not I ? —
Jemima is so careful ! And she could send us word every
hour
( 57 )
hour how he was. I really think Charles might as well
have told his father we would all come. I am not more
alarmed about little Charles now than he is. I was
dreadfully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very
1^^— different to-day."
^K *' Well — if you do not think it too late to give notice
for yourself, suppose you were to go, as well as your
husband. Leave little Charles to my care. Mr. and
Mrs. Musgrove cannot think it wrong, while I remain
with him."
" Are you serious ? " cried Mary, her eyes brightening.
" Dear me ! that 's a very good thought, very good
indeed. To be sure I may just as well go as not, for I am
of no use at home — am I ? and it only harasses me. You,
who have not a mother's feelings, are a great deal the
properest person. You can make little Charles do any
thing ; he always minds you at a word. It will be a great
deal better than leaving him with only Jemima. Oh !
I will certainly go ; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as
much as Charles, for they want me excessively to be
acquainted with Captain Wentworth, and I know you do
not mind being left alone. An excellent thought of yours,
indeed, Anne ! I will go and tell Charles, and get ready
directly. You can send for us, you know, at a moment's
notice, if any thing is the matter ; but I dare say there
will be nothing to alarm you. I should not go, you may
be sure, if I did not feel quite at ease about my dear
child."
The next moment she was tapping at her husband's
dressing-room door, and as Anne followed her up stairs,
she was in time for the whole conversation, which began
with Mary's saying, in a tone of great exultation,
" I mean to go with you, Charles, for I am of no more
use at home than you are. If I were to shut myself up
for ever with the child, I should not be able to persuade
^^ him to do any thing he did not like. Anne will stay ;
^B Anne undertakes to stay at home and take care of him.
^B It is Anne's own proposal, and so I shall go with you,
^H which
L
( 58 )
which will be a great deal better, for I have not dined at
the other house since Tuesday."
" This is very kind of Anne," was her husband's answer,
" and I should be very glad to have you go ; but it seems
rather hard that she should be left at home by herself,
to nurse our sick child."
Anne was now at hand to take up her own cause, and
the sincerity of her manner being soon sufficient to con-
vince him, where conviction was at least very agreeable,
he had no farther scruples as to her being left to dine
alone, though he still wanted her to join them in the
evening, when the child might be at rest for the night,
and kindly urged her to let him come and fetch her ;
but she was quite unpersuadable ; and this being the
case, she had ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off
together in high spirits. They were gone, she hoped, to
be happy, however oddly constructed such happiness
might seem ; as for herself, she was left with as many
sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever likely to be
hers. She knew herself to be of the first utility to the
child ; and what was it to her, if Frederick Wentworth
were only half a mile distant, making himself agreeable
to others !
She would have liked to know how he felt as to a meet-
ing. Perhaps indifferent, if indifference could exist under
such circumstances. He must be either indifferent or
unwilling. Had he wished ever to see her again, he need
not have waited till this time ; he would have done what
she could not but believe that in his place she should
have done long ago, when events had been early giving
him the independence which alone had been wanting.
Her brother and sister came back delighted with their
new acquaintance, apd their visit in general. There
had been music, singing, talking, laughing, all that was
most agreeable ; charming manners in Captain Went-
worth, no shyness or reserve ; they seemed all to know
each other perfectly, and he was coming the very next
morning to shoot with Charles. He was to come to
breakfast.
( 59 )
breakfast, but not at the Cottage, though that had been
proposed at first ; but then he had been pressed to come
to the Great House instead, and he seemed afraid of being
in Mrs. Charles Musgrove's way, on account of the child ;
and therefore, somehow, they hardly knew how, it ended
in Charles's being to meet him to breakfast at his father's.
Anne understood it. He wished to avoid seeing her.
He had enquired after her, she found, slightly, as might
suit a former slight acquaintance, seeming to acknowledge
such as she had acknowledged, actuated, perhaps, by the
same view of escaping introduction when they were to
meet.
The morning hours of the Cottage were always later
than those of the other house ; and on the morrow the
difference was so great, that Mary and Anne were not
more than beginning breakfast when Charles came in to
say that they were just setting off, that he was come for
his dogs, that his sisters were following with Captain
Wentworth, his sisters meaning to visit Mary and the
child, and Captain Wentworth proposing also to wait on
her for a few minutes, if not inconvenient ; and though
Charles had answered for the child's being in no such
state as could make it inconvenient. Captain Wentworth
would not be satisfied without his running on to give
notice.
Mary, very much gratified by this attention, was
delighted to receive him ; while a thousand feelings
rushed on Anne, of which this was the most consoling,
that it would soon be over. And it was soon over. In
two minutes after Charles's preparation, the others
appeared ; they were in the drawing-room. Her eye half
met Captain W^entworth's ; a bow, a curtsey passed ;
she heard his voice — he talked to Mary, said all that was
right ; said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to
mark an easy footing : the room seemed full — full of
persons and voices — but a few minutes ended it. Charles
shewed himself at the window, all was ready, their visitor
had bowed and was gone ; the Miss Musgroves were gone
too.
( 60 )
too, suddenly resolving to walk to the end of the village
with the sportsmen : the room was cleared, and Anne
might finish her breakfast as she could.
"It is over ! it is over I " she repeated to herself
again, and again, in nervous gratitude. " The worst is
over ! "
Mary talked, but she could not attend. She had seen
him. They had met. They had been once more in the
same room !
Soon, however, she began to reason with herself, and
try to be feeling less. Eight years, almost eight years
had passed, since all had been given up. How absurd to
be resuming the agitation which such an interval had
banished into distance and indistinctness ! What might
not eight years do ? Events of every description, changes,
alienations, removals, — all, all must be comprised in it ;
and oblivion of the past — how natural, how certain too !
It included nearly a third part of her own life.
/^ Alas ! with all her reasonings, she found, that to
Retentive feelings eight years may be little more than
^nothing.
Now, how were his sentiments to be read ? Was this
like ^vishing to avoid her ? And the next moment she
was hating herself for the folly which asked the question.
On one other question, which perhaps her utmost
wisdom might not have prevented, she was soon spared all
suspense ; for after the Miss Musgroves had returned and
finished their visit at the Cottage, she had this spontaneous
information from Mary :
" Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne,
though he was so attentive to me. Henrietta asked him
what he thought of you, when they went away ; and he
said, " You were so altered he should not have known
you again."
Mary had no feelings to make her respect her sister's
in a common way ; but she was perfectly unsuspicious
of being inflicting any peculiar wound.
" Altered beyond his knowledge ! " Anne fully sub-
mitted,
( 61 )
mitted, in silent, deep mortification. Doubtless it was
so ; and she could take no revenge, for he was not altered,
or not for the worse. She had already acknowledged it
to herself, and she could not think differently, let him
think of her as he would. No ; the years which had
destroyed her youth and bloom had only given him a more
glowing, manly, open look, in no respect lessening his
personal advantages. She had seen the same Frederick
Wentworth.
" So altered that he should not have known her again ! "
These were words which could not but dwell with her.
Yet she soon began to rejoice that she had heard them.
They were of sobering tendency ; they allayed agitation ;
they composed, and consequently must make her happier.
Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something
like them, but without an idea that they would be carried
round to her. He had thought her wretchedly altered, and,
in the first moment of appeal, had spoken as he felt.
He had not forgiven Anne Elliot. Slie-liad used him ill ;
deserted and disappointed him ; and worse, she had
shewn a feebleness of character in doing so, which his
own decided, confident temper could not endure. She
had given him up to oblige others. It had been the
effect of over-persuasion. It had been weakness and
timidity.
He had been most warmly attached to her, and had
never seen a woman since whom he thought her equal ;
but, except from some natural sensation of curiosity, he
had no desire of meeting her again. Her power with him
was gone for ever.
It was now his object to marry. He was rich, and being
turned on shore, fully intended to settle as soon as he
could be properly tempted ; actually looking round,
ready to fall in love with all the speed which a clear head
and quick taste could allow. He had a heart for either
of the Miss Musgroves, if they could catch it ; a heart,
in short, for any pleasing young woman who came in
his way, excepting Anne Elliot. This was his only secret
exception,
( 62 )
exception, when he said to his sister, in answer to her
suppositions,
" Yes, here I am, Sophia, quite ready to make a fooUsh
match. Any body between fifteen and thirty may have
me for asking. A Httle beauty, and a few smiles, and
a few compUments to the navy, and I am a lost man.
Should not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no
society among women to make him nice ? "
He said it, she knew, to be contradicted. His bright,
proud eye spoke the happy conviction that he was nice ;
and Anne Elliot was not out of his thoughts, when he
more seriously described the woman he should wish to
meet with. " A strong mind, with sweetness of manner,"
made the first and the last of the description.
" This is the woman I want, said he. Something
a little inferior I shall of course put up with, but it must
not be much. If I am a fool, I shall be a fool indeed, for
I have thought on the subject more than most men."
CHAP-
From this
were repeatedly
in company to^
boy's state could n.
for absenting hersell ,
other dinings and other .
Whether former feeUngs
brought to the proof; fom.
be brought to the recollection o
be reverted to ; the year of the.
but be named by him, in the littlt
tions which conversation called fox
qualified him, his disposition led hi
" That was in the year six ; " " That
I went to sea in the year six," occurred i.
the first evening they spent together : an
voice did not falter, and though she had n.
suppose his eye wandering towards her while
Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her knoA
his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembra.
more than herself. There must be the same imm^
association of thought, though she was very far ti.
conceiving it to be of equal pain.
They had no conversation together, no intercourse but
what the commonest civility required. Once so much
to each other ! Now nothing ! There had been a time,
when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room
at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult
to cease to speak to one another. With the exception,
perhaps, of Admiral and Mrs. Croft, who seemed parti-
cularly attached and happy, (Anne could allow no other
exception even among the married couples) there could
have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no
feelings
.,rs, for
2rpetiial
d discerned
Ignorance of
/ and he was
Ae two Miss Mus-
j eyes but for him,
xd, daily regulations,
prise at his accounts, at
imodation and arrangement
jw from him some pleasant
Anne of the early days when
nt, and she too had been accused
6 be living on board without any
if cook to dress it if there were, or
oit, or any knife and fork to use.
.ening and thinking, she was roused by
firs. Musgrove's, who, overcome by fond
i not help saying,
,.iiss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare
son, I dare say he would have been just such
oy this time."
J suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while
.vlusgrove relieved her heart a little more ; and for
.ew minutes, therefore, could not keep pace with the
conversation of the others.— When she could let her
attention take its natural course again, she found the
IVIiss Musgroves just fetching the navy-list,— (their own
navy list, the first that had ever been at Uppercross) ;
and sitting down together to pore over it, with the
professed ^iew of finding out the ships which Captain
Wentworth had commanded.
" Your first was the Asp, I remember ; we will look
for the Asp."
"You will not find her there.— Quite worn out and
broken up. I was the last man who commanded her.—
Hardly
\
65 )
Hardly fit for service th^n. — Reported fitN
service for a year or two, — ^id so I was sent
West Indies." \
The girls looked all amazement -,
" The admiralty," he continued, "'entertain/themselves
now and then, with sending a few hundred inen to sea,
in a ship not fit to be employed. But they liave a great
many to provide for ; and among the tht)usands that
*~"T?iay7Ust as well go to the bottom as hot, it is impossible
for them to distinguish the very set wh6 may be least
missed."
" Phoo ! phoo ! " cried'' the admiral, " what stuff
these young fellows talk ! Never was a better sloop than
the Asp in her day. — For an old built sloop, you would
not see her equal. Lucky fellow to get her ! — He knows
there must have been twenty better men than himself
applying for her at the same time. Lucky fellow to get
any thing so soon, with no more interest than his."
" I felt my luck, admiral, I assure you ; " replied
Captain Wentworth, seriously. — " I was as well satisfied
with my appointment as you can desire. It was a great
object with me, at that time, to be at sea, — a very great
object. I wanted to be doing something."
"To be sure you did. — What should a young fellow,
like you, do ashore, for half a year together ? — If a man
has not a wife, he soon wants to be afloat again."
" But, Captain Wentworth," cried Louisa, " how vexed
you must have been when you came to the Asp, to see
what an old thing they had given you."
"I knew pretty well what she was, before that day ; "
said he, smiling. " I had no more discoveries to make,
than you would have as to the fashion and strength of
any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among
half your acquaintance, ever since you could remember,
and which at last, on some very wet day, is lent to your-
self.— Ah ! she was a dear old Asp to me. She did all
that I wanted. I knew she would. — I knew that we
should either go to the bottom together, or that she
would
( 66 )
would be the making of me ; and I never had two days
of foul weather all the time I was at sea in her ; and after
taking privateers enough to be very entertaining, I had
the good luck, in my passage home the next autumn,
to fall in with the very French frigate I wanted. — I brought
her into Plymouth ; and here was another instance of
luck. We had not been six hours in the Sound, when
a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights, and
which would have done for poor old Asp, in half the time ;
our touch with the Great Nation not having much im-
proved our condition. Four-and-twenty hours later,
and I should only have been a gallant Captain Wentworth,
in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers ;
and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought
about me."
Anne's shudderings were to herself, alone : but the
Miss Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere,
in their exclamations of pity and horror.
" And so then, I suppose," said Mrs. Musgrove, in
a low voice, as if thinking aloud, " so then he went away
to the Laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. —
Charles, my dear," (beckoning him to her), " do ask
Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your
poor brother. I always forget."
" It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been
left ill at Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his
former captain to Captain Wentworth."
" Oh ! — but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need
not be afraid of mentioning poor Dick before me, for it
would be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of, by such
a good friend."
Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabili-
ties of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away.
The girls were now hunting for the Laconia ; and
Captain Wentworth could not deny himself the pleasure
of taking the precious volume into his own hands to save
them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little
statement of her name and rate, and present non-com-
missioned
( 67 )
missioned class, observing over it, that she too had been
one of the best friends man ever had.
" Ah ! those were pleasant days when I had the
Laconia ! How fast I made money in her. — A friend of
mine, and I, had such a lovely cruise together off the
Western Islands. — Poor Harville, sister ! You know how
much he wanted money — worse than myself. He had
a wife. — Excellent fellow ! I shall never forget his happi-
ness. He felt it all, so much for her sake. — I wished for
him again the next summer, when I had still the same
luck in the Mediterranean."
" And I am sure, Sir," said Mrs. Musgrove, " it was
a lucky day for us^ when you were put captain into that
ship. We shall never forget what you did."
Her feelings made her speak low ; and Captain Went-
worth, hearing only in part, and probably not having
Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts, looked rather in
suspense, and as if waiting for more.
" My brother," whispered one of the girls ; " mamma
is thinking of poor Richard:"
" Poor dear fellow ! " continued Mrs. Musgrove ; " he
was grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent,
while he was under your care ! Ah ! it would have
been a happy thing, if he had never left you. I assure you,
Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you."
There was a momentary expression in Captain Went-
worth's face at this speech, a certain glance of his bright
eye, and curl of his handsome mouth, which convinced
Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs. Musgrove's kind
wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains
to get rid of him ; but it was too transient an indulgence
of self-amusement to be detected by any who understood
him less than herself; in another moment he was
perfectly collected and serious ; and almost instantly
afterwards coming up to the sofa, on which she and
Mrs. Musgrove were sitting, took a place by the latter,
and entered into conversation with her, in a low voice,
about her son, doing it with so much sympathy and
natural
( 68 )
natural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for
all that was real and unabsurd in the parent's feelings.
They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs. Musgrove
had most readily made room for him ; — they were divided
only by Mrs. Musgrove. It was no insignificant barrier
indeed. Mrs. Musgrove was of a comfortable substantial
size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good
cheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment ;
and while the agitations of Anne's slender form, and
pensive face, may be considered as very completely
screened. Captain Wentworth should be allowed some
credit for the self-command with which he attended to
her large fat sighings over the destiny of a son, whom
alive nobody had cared for.
Personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no
necessary proportions. A large bulky figure has as good
a right to be in deep affliction, as the most graceful set
of limbs in the world. But, fair or not fair, there are
unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will patronize
in vain, — which taste cannot tolerate, — which ridicule
will seize.
The admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns
about the room with his hands behind him, being called
to order by his wife, now came up to Captain Wentworth,
and without any observation of what he might be inter-
rupting, thinking only of his own thoughts, began with,
" If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring,
Frederick, you would have been asked to give a passage
to Lady Mary Grierson and her daughters."
'* Should I ? I am glad I was not a week later then."
The admiral abused him for his want of gallantry. He
defended himself ; though professing that he would never
willingly admit any ladies on board a ship of his, excepting
for a ball, or a visit, which a few hours might comprehend,
" But, if I know myself," said he, " this is from no
want of gallantry towards them. It is rather from feeling
how impossible it is, with all one's efforts, and all one's
sacrifices, to make the accommodations on board, . such
.;:::.■;•... as
( 69 )
as women ought to have. There can be no want of
gallantry, admiral, in rating the claims of women to every
personal comfort high — and this is what I do. I hate to
hear of women on board, or to see them on board ; and
no ship, under my command, shall ever convey a family
of ladies any where, if I can help it."
This brought his sister upon him.
" Oh Frederick ! — But I cannot believe it of you. — All
idle refinement ! — Women may be as comfortable on
board, as in the best house in England. I believe I have
lived as much on board as most women, and I know
nothing superior to the accommodations of a man of
war. I declare I have not a comfort or an indulgence
about me, even at Kellynch-hall," (with a kind bow to
Anne) " beyond what I always had in most of the ships
I have lived in ; and they have been five altogether."
" Nothing to the purpose," replied her brother. "You
were living with your husband ; and were the only
woman on board."
" But you, yourself, brought Mrs. Harville, her sister,
her cousin, and the three children, round from Portsmouth
to Plymouth. Where was this superfine, extraordinary
sort of gallantry of yours, then ? "
" All merged in my friendship, Sophia. I would assist
any brother officer's wife that I could, and I would bring
any thing of Harville's from the world's end, if he wanted
it. But do not imagine that I did not feel it an evil in
itself."
" Depend upon it they were all perfectly comfortable."
" I might not like them the better for that, perhaps.
Such a number of women and children have no right to
be comfortable on board."
" My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly. Pray,
what would become of us poor sailors' wives, who often
want to be conveyed to one port or another, after our
husbands, if every body had your feelings ? "
" My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking
Mrs. Harville, and all her family, to Plymouth."
1781.5 y *' But
( 70 )
" But I hate to hear you talking so, like a fine gentle-
man, and as if women were all fine ladies, instead of
rational creatures. We none of us expect to be in smooth
water all our days."
" Ah ! my dear," said the admiral, when he has got
a wife, he will sing a different tune. When he is married,
if we have the good luck to live to another war, we shall
see him do as you and I, and a great many others, have
done. We shall have him very thankful to any body that
will bring him his wife."
" Ay, that we shall."
" Now I have done," cried Captain Wentworth —
" When once married people begin to attack me with,
' Oh ! you will think very differently, when you are
married.' I can only say, ' No, I shall not ; ' and then
they say again, * Yes, you will,' and there is an end of it.'*
He got up and moved away.
" What a great traveller you must have been, ma'am ! "
said Mrs. Musgrove to Mrs. Croft.
** Pretty well, ma'am, in the fifteen years of my
marriage ; though many women have done more. I have
crossed the Atlantic four times, and have been once to
the East Indies, and back again ; and only once, besides
being in different places about home — Cork, and Lisbon,
and Gibraltar. But I never went beyond the Streights —
and never was in the West Indies. We do not call
Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies."
Mrs. Musgrove had not a word to say in dissent ; she
could not accuse herself of having ever called them any
thing in the whole course of her life.
" And I do assure you, ma'am," pursued Mrs. Croft,
" that nothing can exceed the accommodations of a man
of war ; I speak, you know, of the higher rates. When
you come to a frigate, of course, you are more confined —
though any reasonable woman may be perfectly happy
in one of them ; and I can safely say, that the happiest
part of my life has been spent on board a ship. While we
were together, you know, there was nothing to be feared.
Thank
( 71 )
Thank God ! I have always been blessed with excellent
health, and no cHmate disagrees with me. A Httle dis-
ordered always the first twenty-four hours of going to
sea, but never knew what sickness was afterwards. The
only time that I ever really suffered in body or mind, the
only time that I ever fancied myself unwell, or had any
ideas of danger, was the winter that I passed by myself
at Deal, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in
the North Seas. I lived in perpetual fright at that time,
and had all manner of imaginary complaints from not
knowing what to do with myself, or when I should hear
from him next ; but as long as we could be together,
nothing ever ailed me, and I never met with the smallest
inconvenience."
" Ay, to be sure. — Yes, indeed, oh yes, I am quite of
your opinion, Mrs. Croft," was Mrs. Musgrove's hearty
answer. " There is nothing so bad as a separation. I am
quite of your opinion. / know what it is, for Mr. Musgrove
always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they
are over, and he is safe back again."
The evening ended with dancing. On its being proposed,
Anne offered her services, as usual, and though her eyes
would sometimes fill with tears as she sat at the instru-
ment, she was extremely glad to be employed, and desired
nothing in return but to be unobserved.
It was a merry, joyous party, and no one seemed in
higher spirits than Captain Wentworth. She felt that he
had every thing to elevate him, which general attention
and deference, and especially the attention of all the
young women could do. The Miss Hayters, the females
of the family of cousins already mentioned, were appa-
rently admitted to the honour of being in love with him ;
and as for Henrietta and Louisa, they both seemed so
entirely occupied by him, that nothing but the continued
appearance of the most perfect good-will between them-
selves, could have made it credible that they were not
decided rivals. If he were a little spoilt by such universal,
such eager admiration, who could wonder ?
y 2 These
( 72 )
These were some of the thoughts which occupied Anne,
while her fingers were mechanically at work, proceeding
for half an hour together, equally without error, and with-
out consciousness. Once she felt that he was looking at
herself — observing her altered features, perhaps, trying to
trace in them the ruins of the face which had once charmed
him ; and once she knew that he must have spoken of
her ; — she was hardly aware of it, till she heard the
answer ; but then she was sure of his having asked his
partner whether Miss Elliot never danced ? The answer
was, " Oh ! no, never ; she has quite given up dancing.
She had rather play. She is never tired of playing."
Once, too, he spoke to her. She had left the instrument
on the dancing being over, and he had sat down to try
to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss Mus-
groves an idea of. Unintentionally she returned to that
part of the room ; he saw her, and, instantly rising, said,
with studied politeness,
" I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat ; " and
though she immediately drew back with a decided
negative, he was not to be induced to sit down again.
Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches*
His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse
than any thing.
CHAP-
( 73
CHAPTER IX.
Iaptain Wentworth was come to Kellynch as to
a home, to stay as long as he liked, being as thoroughly
the object of the Admiral's fraternal kindness as of his
wife's. He had intended, on first arriving, to proceed
very soon into Shropshire, and visit the brother settled
in that county, but the attractions of Uppercross induced
him to put this off. There was so much of friendliness,
and of flattery, and of every thing most bewitching in
his reception there ; the old were so hospitable, the
young so agreeable, that he could not but resolve to remain
where he was, and take all the charms and perfections of
Edward's wife upon credit a little longer.
It was soon Uppercross with him almost every day.
The Musgroves could hardly be more ready to invite than
he to come, particularly in the morning, when he had
no companion at home, for the Admiral and Mrs. Croft
were generally out of doors together, interesting themselves
in their new possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and
dawdling about in a way not endurable to a third person,
or driving out in a gig, lately added to their establishment.
Hitherto there had been but one opinion of Captain
Wentworth, among the Musgroves and their dependencies.
It was unvarying, warm admiration every where. But
this intimate footing was not more than established, when
a certain Charles Hayter returned among them, to be
a good deal disturbed by it, and to think Captain Went-
worth very much in the waj^
Charles Hayter was the eldest of all the cousins, and
a very amiable, pleasing young man, between whom and
Henrietta there had been a considerable appearance of
attachment previous to Captain Wentworth's introduc-
tion. He was in orders, and having a curacy in the
neighbourhood where residence was not required, lived
at
{ 74 )
at his father's house, only two miles from Uppercross.
A short absence from home had left his fair one unguarded
by his attentions at this critical period, and when he
came back he had the pain of finding very altered manners,
and of seeing Captain Wentworth.
Mrs. Musgrove and Mrs. Hayter were sisters. They
had each had money, but their marriages had made
a material difference in their degree of consequence.
Mr. Hayter had some property of his own, but it was
insignificant compared with Mr. Musgrove's ; and while
the Musgroves were in the first class of society in the
country, the young Hayters would, from their parents'
inferior, retired, and unpolished way of living, and their
own defective education, have been hardly in any class
at all, but for their connexion with Uppercross ; this
eldest son of course excepted, who had chosen to be a
scholar and a gentleman, and who was very superior in
cultivation and manners to all the rest.
The two families had always been on excellent terms,
there being no pride on one side, and no envy on the
other, and only such a consciousness of superiority in
the Miss Musgroves, as made them pleased to improve
their cousins. — Charles's attentions to Henrietta had been
observed by her father and mother without any disappro-
bation. " It would not be a great match for her ; but
if Henrietta liked him, — and Henrietta did seem to like
him."
Henrietta fully thought so herself, before Captain
Wentworth came ; but from that time Cousin Charles
had been very much forgotten.
Which of the two sisters was preferred by Captain
Wentworth was as yet quite doubtful, as far as Anne's
observation reached. Henrietta was perhaps the prettiest,
Louisa had the higher spirits ; and she knew not now,
whether the more gentle or the more lively character
were most likely to attract him.
Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove, either from seeing little, or
from an entire confidence in the discretion of both their
daughters,
( 75 )
daughters, and of all the young men who came near them,
seemed to leave every thing to take its chance. There
was not the smallest appearance of solicitude or remark
about them, in the Mansion-house ; but it was different
at the Cottage : the young couple there were more dis-
posed to speculate and wonder ; and Captain Wentworth
had not been above four or five times in the Miss Mus-
groves' company, and Charles Hayter had but just
reappeared, when Anne had to listen to the opinions of
her brother and sister, as to which was the one liked best,
Charles gave it for Louisa, Mary for Henrietta, but quite
agreeing that to have him marry either would be extremely
delightful.
Charles " had never seen a pleasanter man in his life ;
and from what he had once heard Captain Wentworth
himself say, was very sure that he had not made less than
twenty thousand pounds by the war. Here was a fortune
at once ; besides which, there would be the chance of
what might be done in any future war ; and he was sure
Captain Wentworth was as likely a man to distinguish
himself as any officer in the navy. Oh ! it would be
a capital match for either of his sisters."
" Upon my word it would," replied Mary. " Dear
me ! If he should rise to any very great honours ! If
he should ever be made a Baronet ! ' Lady Wentworth '
sounds very well. That would be a noble thing, indeed,
for Henrietta ! She would take place of me then, and
Henrietta would not dislike that. Sir Frederick and
Lady Wentworth ! It would be but a new creation,
however, and I never think much of your new creations."
It suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred,
on the very account of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions
she wished to see put an end to. She looked down very
decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought it would be
quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between
the families renewed — very sad for herself and her
children.
" You know," said she, " I cannot think him at all
a fit
( 76 )
a fit match for Henrietta ; and considering the alliances
which the Musgroves have made, she has no right to
throw herself away. I do not think any young woman
has a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and
inconvenient to the principal part of her family, and be
giving bad connections to those who have not been used
to them. And, pray, who is Charies Hayter ? Nothing
but a country curate. A most improper match for
Miss Musgrove, of Uppercross."
Her husband, however, would not agree with her
here ; for besides having a regard for his cousin, Charies
Hayter was an eldest son, and he saw things as an eldest
son himself.
" Now you are talking nonsense, Mary," was therefore
his answer. " It would not be a great match for Henrietta,
but Charies has a very fair chance, through the Spicers,
of getting something from the Bishop in the course of
a year or two ; and you will please to remember, that he
is the eldest son ; whenever my uncle dies, he steps into
very pretty property. The estate at Winthrop is not less
than two hundred and fifty acres, besides the farm near
Taunton, which is some of the best land in the country.
I grant you, that any of them but Charies would be a very
shocking match for Henrietta, and indeed it could not
be ; he is the only one that could be possible ; but he
is a very good-natured, good sort of a fellow ; and
whenever Winthrop comes into his hands, he will make
a different sort of place of it, and live in a very different
sort of way ; and with that property, he will never be
a contemptible man. Good, freehold property. No, no ;
Henrietta might do worse than marry Charles Hayter ;
and if she has him, and Louisa can get Captain Wentworth,
I shall be very well satisfied."
" Charies may say what he pleases," cried Mary to
Anne, as soon as he was out of the room, " but it would
be shocking to have Henrietta marry Charies Hayter ;
a very bad thing for her, and still worse for me ; and
therefore it is very much to be wished that Captain Went-
worth
( It )
worth may soon put him quite out of her head, and I have
very Uttle doubt that he has. She took hardly any
notice of Charles Hayter yesterday. I wish you had been
there to see her behaviour. And as to Captain Wentworth's
liking Louisa as well as Henrietta, it is nonsense to say
so ; for he certainly does like Henrietta a great deal the
best. But Charles is so positive ! I wish you had been
with us yesterday, for then you might have decided
between us ; and I am sure you would have thought
as I did, unless you had been determined to give it
against me."
A dinner at Mr. Musgrove's had been the occasion,
when all these things should have been seen by Anne ;
but she had staid at home, under the mixed plea of
a head-ache of her own, and some return of indisposition
in little Charles. She had thought only of avoiding
Captain Wentworth ; but an escape from being appealed
to as umpire, was now added to the advantages of a quiet
evening.
As to Captain Wentworth's views, she deemed it of
more consequence that he should know his own mind,
early enough not to be endangering the happiness of
either sister, or impeaching his own honour, than that
he should prefer Henrietta to Louisa, or Louisa to Hen-
rietta. Either of them would, in all probability, make
him an affectionate, good-humoured wife. With regard
to Charles Hayter, she had delicacy which must be pained
by any lightness of conduct in a well-meaning young
woman, and a heart to sympathize in Buy of the sufferings
it occasioned ; but if Henrietta found herself mistaken
in the nature of her feelings, the alteration could not be
understood too soon.
Charles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and
mortify him in his cousin's behaviour. She had too old
a regard for him to be so wholly estranged, as might in
two meetings extinguish every past hope, and leave him
nothing to do but to keep away from Uppercross ; but
there was such a change as became very alarming, when
such
( 78 )
such a man as Captain Wentworth was to be regarded
as the probable cause. He had been absent only two
Sundays ; and when they parted, had left her interested
even to the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon
quitting his present curacy, and obtaining that of Upper-
cross instead. It had then seemed the object nearest her
heart, that Dr. Shirley, the rector, who for more than
forty years had been zealously discharging all the duties
of his office, but was now growing too infirm for many of
them, should be quite fixed on engaging a curate ; should
make his curacy quite as good as he could afford, and
should give Charles Hayter the promise of it. The
advantage of his having to come only to Uppercross,
instead of going six miles another way ; of his having,
in every respect, a better curacy ; of his belonging to
their dear Dr. Shirley, and of dear, good Dr. Shirley's
being relieved from the duty which he could no longer
get through without most injurious fatigue, had been
a great deal, even to Louisa, but had been almost every
thing to Henrietta. When he came back, alas ! the zeal
of the business was gone by. Louisa could not listen at
all to his account of a conversation which he had just
held with Dr. Shirley : she was at window, looking out
for Captain Wentworth ; and even Henrietta had at
best only a divided attention to give, and seemed to have
forgotten all the former doubt and solicitude of the
negociation.
" Well, I am very glad indeed, but I always thought
you would have it ; I always thought you sure. It did
not appear to me that — In short, you know. Dr. Shirley
must have a curate, and you had secured his promise.
Is he coming, Louisa ? "
One morning, very soon after the dinner at the Mus-
groves, at which Anne had not been present. Captain
Wentworth walked into the drawing-room at the Cottage,
where were only herself and the little invalid Charles,
who was lying on the sofa.
The surprise of finding himself almost alone with Anne
Elliot,
( 79 )
Elliot, deprived his manners of their usual composure :
he started, and could only say, " I thought the Miss Mus-
groves had been here — Mrs. Musgrove told me I should
find them here," before he walked to the window to
recollect himself, and feel how he ought to behave.
" They are up stairs with my sister — they will be down
in a few moments, I dare say," — had been Anne's reply,
in all the confusion that was natural ; and if the child
had not called her to come and do something for him,
she would have been out of the room the next moment,
and released Captain Wentworth as well as herself.
He continued at the window ; and after calmly and
politely saying, " I hope the little boy is better," was
silent.
She was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain
there to satisfy her patient ; and thus they continued
a few minutes, when, to her very great satisfaction, she
heard some other person crossing the little vestibule.
She hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the
house ; but it proved to be one much less calculated for
making matters easy — Charles Hayter, probably not at
all better pleased by the sight of Captain Wentworth,
than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of Anne.
She only attempted to say, " How do you do ? Will
not you sit down ? The others will be here presently."
Captain Wentworth, however, came from his window,
apparently not ill-disposed for conversation ; but Charles
Hayter soon put an end to his attempts, by seating
himself near the table, and taking up the newspaper ;
and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.
Another minute brought another addition. The younger
boy, a remarkable stout, forward child, of two years old,
having got the door opened for him by some one without,
made his determined appearance among them, and went
straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in
his claim to any thing good that might be giving away.
There being nothing to be eat, he could only have some
play ; and as his aunt would not let him teaze his sick
brother,
( 80 )
brother, he began to fasten himself upon her, as she
knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was about Charles,
she could not shake him off. She spoke to him — ordered,
intreated, and insisted in vain. Once she did contrive
to push him away, but the boy had the greater pleasure
in getting upon her back again directly.
" Walter," said she, " get down this moment. You are
extremely troublesome. I am very angry with you."
" Walter," cried Charles Hayter, " why do you not
do as you are bid ? Do not you hear your aunt speak ?
Come to me, Walter, come to cousin Charles."
But not a bit did Walter stir.
In another moment, however, she found herself in the
state of being released from him ; some one was taking him
from her, though he had bent down her head so much,
that his little sturdy hands were unfastened from around
her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she
knew that Captain Wentworth had done it.
Her sensations on the discovery made her perfectly
speechless. She could not even thank him. She could
only hang over little Charles, with most disordered feelings.
His kindness in stepping forward to her relief — the manner
— the silence in which it had passed — the little particulars
of the circumstance — with the conviction soon forced on
her by the noise he was studiously making with the
child, that he meant to avoid hearing_jier_thanks, and
"rather sought to testify that her conversation was the last
of his wants, produced such a confusion of varying, but
very painful agitation, as she could not recover from,
till enabled by the entrance of Mary and the Miss Mus-
groves to make over her little patient to their cares, and
leave the room. She could not stay. It might have been
an opportunity of watching the loves and jealousies of
the four ; they were now all together, but she could stay
for none of it. It was evident that Charles Hayter was
not well inclined towards Captain Wentworth. She had
a strong impression of his having said, in a vext tone of
voice, after Captain Wentworth's interference, " You
ought
( 81 )
|„..„...„.
^ teaze your aunt ; " and could comprehend his regretting
that Captain Wentworth should do what he ought to
have done himself. But neither Charles Hayter's feelings,
I nor any body's feelings, could interest her, till she had
^k a little better arranged her own. She was ashamed of
^^ herself, quite ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome
by such a trifle ; but so it was ; and it required a long
application of solitude and reflection to recover her.
CHAP-
CHAPTER X.
Other opportunities of making her observations could
not fail to occur. Anne had soon been in company with
all the four together often enough to have an opinion,
though too wise to acknowledge as much at home, where
she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor
wife ; for while she considered Louisa to be rather the
favourite, she could not but think, as far as she might
dare to judge from memory and experience, that Captain
Wentworth was not in love with either. They were more
in love with him ; yet there it was not love. It was
a little fever of admiration ; but it might, probably must,
end in love with some. Charles Hayter seemed aware of
being slighted, and yet Henrietta had sometimes the air
y j of being divided between them. Anne longed for the power
/ of representing to them all what they were about, and of
' pointing out some of the evils they were exposing them-
selves to. She did not attribute guile to any. It was the
highest satisfaction to her, to believe Captain Wentworth
not in the least aware of the pain he was occasioning.
There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner.
He had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any
claims of Charles Hayter. He was only wrong in accepting
the attentions — (for accepting must be the word) of two
young women at once.
After a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed
to quit the field. Three days had passed without his
coming once to Uppercross ; a most decided change. He
had even refused one regular invitation to dinner ; and
having been found on the occasion by Mr. Musgrove with
some large books before him, Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove
were sure all could not be right, and talked, with grave
faces, of his studying himself to death. It was Mary's
hope and belief, that he had received a positive dismissal
from
( 83 )
from Henrietta, and her husband lived under the constant
dependance of seeing him to-morrow. Anne could only
feel that Charles Hayter was wise.
One morning, about this time, Charles Musgrove and
Captain Wentworth being gone a shooting together, as
the sister^ in the cottage were sitting quietly at work,
they were visited at the window by the sisters from the
mansion-house.
It was a very fine November day, and the Miss Mus-
groves came through the little grounds, and stopped for
no other purpose than to say, that they were going to
take a long walk, and, therefore, concluded Mary could
not like to go with them ; and when Mary immediately
replied, with some jealousy, at not being supposed a good
walker, " Oh, yes, I should like to join you very much,
I am very fond of a long walk," Anne felt persuaded, by
the looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what they 1
did not wish, and admired again the sort of necessity
which the family-habits seemed to produce, of every
thing being to be communicated, and every thing
being to be done together, however undesired and
inconvenient. She tried to dissuade Mary from going,
but in vain ; and that being the case, thought it best to
accept the Miss Musgroves' much more cordial invitation
to herself to go likewise, as she might be useful in turning
back wdth her sister, and lessening the interference in
any plan of their own.
" I cannot imagine why they should suppose I should
not like a long walk ! " said Mary, as she went up stairs.
" Every body is always supposing that I am not a good
walker ! And yet they would not have been pleased,
if we had refused to join them. When people come in
this manner on purpose to ask us, how can one say no ? '*
Just as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned.
They had taken out a young dog, who had spoilt their
sport, and sent them back early. Their time and strength,
and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready for this walk,
and they entered into it with pleasure. Could Anne have
foreseen
( 84 )
foreseen such a junction, she would have staid at home ;
but, from some feeHngs of interest and curiosity, she
fancied now that it was too late to retract, and the whole
six set forward together in the direction chosen by the
Miss Musgroves, who evidently considered the walk as
under their guidance.
Anne's object was, not to be in the way of any body,
and where the narrow paths across the fields made many
separations necessary, to keep with her brother and
sister. Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exer-
cise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the
year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges, and
from repeating to herself some few of the thousand
poetical descriptions extant of autumn, jthat^ season of
i~~ peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste
and tenderness, that season which has drawn froni every
poet, worthy of being read, some attempt at description,
or some lines of feeling. She occupied her mind as much
as possible in such like musings and quotations ; but it
was not possible, that when within reach of Captain
Wentworth's conversation with either of the Miss Mus-
groves, she should not try to hear it ; yet she caught
little very remarkable. It was mere lively chat, — such
as any young persons, on an intimate footing, might fall
into. He was more engaged with Louisa than with
Henrietta. Louisa certainly put more forward for his
notice than her sister. This distinction appeared to
increase, and there was one speech of Louisa's which
struck her. After one of the many praises of the day,
which were continually bursting forth. Captain Went-
worth added,
" What glorious weather for the Admiral and my
sister I They meant to take a long drive this morning ;
perhaps we may hail them from some of these hills.
They talked of coming into this side of the country.
I wonder whereabouts they will upset to-day. Oh ! it does
happen very often, I assure you — but my sister makes
nothing of it — she would as lieve be tossed out as not."
" Ah !
( 85 )
^^ " but if it were really so, I should do just the same in her
place. If I loved a man, as she loves the Admiral, I would
be always with him, nothing should ever separate us,
and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven
safely by anybody else."
It was spoken with enthusiasm.
*' Had you ? " cried he, catching the same tone ;
" I honour you ! " And there was silence between them
for a little while.
Anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again.
The sweet scenes of autumn were for a while put by —
unless some tender sonnet, fraught with the apt analogy
of the declining year, with declining happiness, and the
images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone together,
blessed her memory. She roused herself to say, as they
struck by order into another path, " Is not this one of
the ways to Winthrop ? " But nobody heard, or, at
least, nobody answered her.
Winthrop, however, or its environs — for young men
are, sometimes, to be met with, strolling about near
home, was their destination ; and after another half
mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where
the ploughs at work, and the fresh-made path spoke the
farmer, counteracting the sweets of poetical despondence,
and meaning to have spring again, they gained the sum-
mit of the most considerable hill, which parted Upper-
cross and Winthrop, and soon commanded a full view
of the latter, at the foot of the hill on the other side.
Winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was
stretched before them ; an indifferent house, standing
low, and hemmed in by the barns and buildings of
a farm-yard.
Mary exclaimed, " Bless me ! here is Winthrop —
I declare I had no idea ! well, now I think we had
better turn back ; I am excessively tired."
Henrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no
cousin Charles walking along any path, or leaning against
1781.5 2 any
( 86 )
any gate, was ready to do as Mary wished ; but " No,"
said Charles Musgrove, and " No, no,'* cried Louisa more
eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing
the matter warmly.
Charles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring
his resolution of calling on his aunt, now that he was so
near ; and very evidently, though more fearfully, trying
to induce his wife to go too. But this was one of the
points on which the lady shewed her strength, and when
he recommended the advantage of resting herself a
quarter of an hour at Winthrop, as she felt so tired, she
resolutely answered, " Oh ! no, indeed ! — walking up
that hill again would do her more harm than any sitting
down could do her good ; " — and, in short, her look and
manner declared, that go she would not.
After a little succession of these sort of debates and
consultations, it was settled between Charles and his
two sisters, that he, and Henrietta, should just run down
for a few minutes, to see their aunt and cousins, while
the rest of the party waited for them at the top of the
hill. Louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan ;
and, as she went a little way with them, down the hill,
still talking to Henrietta, Mary took the opportunity of
looking scornfully around her, and saying to Captain
Wentworth,
"It is very unpleasant, having such connexions !
But I assure you, I have never been in the house above
twice in my life."
She received no other answer, than an artificial,
assenting smile, followed by a contemptuous glance, as
he turned away, which Anne perfectly knew the meaning
of.
The brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheer-
ful spot ; Louisa returned, and Mary finding a comfortable
seat for herself, on the step of a stile, was very well
satisfied so long as the others all stood about her ; but
when Louisa drew Captain Wentworth away, to try for
a gleaning of nuts in an adjoining hedge-row, and they
were
( 87 )
were gone by degrees quite out of sight and sound, Mary
was happy no longer ; she quarrelled with her own seat, —
was sure Louisa had got a much better somewhere, — and
nothing could prevent her from going to look for a better
also. She turned through the same gate, — but could not
see them. — Anne found a nice seat for her, on a dry
sunny bank, under the hedge-row, in which she had no
doubt of their still being — in some spot or other. Mary
sat down for a moment, but it would not do ; she was
sure Louisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and
she would go on, till she overtook her.
Anne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down ; and
she very soon heard Captain Wentworth and Louisa
in the hedge-row, behind her, as if making their way
back, along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the
centre. They were speaking as they drew near. Louisa's
voice was the first distinguished. She seemed to be in
the middle of some eager speech. What Anne first
heard was,
" And so, I made her go. I could not bear that she
should be frightened from the visit by such nonsense.
What ! — would I be turned back from doing a thing that
I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right, by
the airs and interference of such a person ? — or, of any
person I may say. No, — I have no idea of being so easily
persuaded. When I have made up my mind, I have made
it. And Henrietta seemed entirely to have made up hers
to call at Winthrop to-day — and yet, she was as near
giving it up, out of nonsensical complaisance ! "
" She would have turned back then, but for you ? "
" She would indeed. I am almost ashamed to say it.'*
" Happy for her, to have such a mind as yours at hand !
— ^After the hints you gave just now, which did but con-
firm my own observations, the last time I was in company
with him, I need not affect to have no comprehension of
what is going on. I see that more than a mere dutiful
morning- visit to your aunt was in question ; — and woe
betide him, and her too, when it comes to things of
z 2 consequence,
( 88 )
consequence, when they are placed in circumstances,
requiring fortitude and strength of mind, if she have not
resolution enough to resist idle interference in such
a trifle as this. Your sister is an amiable creature ; but
yours is the character of decision and firmness, I see. If
you value her conduct or happiness, infuse as much of
your own spirit into her, as you can. But this, no doubt,
you have been always doing. It is the worst evil of too
yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence
over it can be depended on. — You are never sure of a good
impression being durable. Every body may sway it ;
let those who would be happy be firm. — Here is a nut,"
said he, catching one down from an upper bough. " To
exemplify, — a beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with
original strength, has outlived all the storms of autumn.
/^ Not a puncture, not a weak spot any where. — This nut,"
/ he continued, with playful solemnity, — " while so many
^ of its brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot,
/ is still in possession of all the happiness that a hazel-nut
•^can be supposed capable of." Then, returning to his
/former earnest tone : " My first wish for all, whom I am
/ interested in, is that they should be firm. If Louisa
L Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her November
of life, she will cherish all her present powers of mind."
He had done, — and was unanswered. It would have
surprised Anne, if Louisa could have readily answered
such a speech — words of such interest, spoken with such
serious warmth ! — she could imagine what Louisa was
feeling. For herself — she feared to move, lest she should
be seen. While she remained, a bush of low rambling
holly protected her, and they were moving on. Before
they were beyond her hearing, however, Louisa spoke again.
*' Mary is good-natured enough in many respects,"
said she ; " but she does sometimes provoke me exces-
sively, by her nonsense and her pride ; the Elliot pride.
She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride. — We
do so wish that Charles had married Anne instead. —
I suppose you know he wanted to marry Anne ? "
After
( 89 )
After a moment's pause, Captain Wentworth said,
" Do you mean that she refused him ? "
" Oh ! yes, certainly."
" When did that happen ? "
" I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at
school at the time ; but I believe about a year before he
married Mary. I wish she had accepted him. We should
all have liked her a great deal better ; and papa and
mamma always think it was her great friend Lady Russell's
doing, that she did not. — They think Charles might not
be learned and bookish enough to please Lady Russell,
and that therefore, she persuaded Anne to refuse him."
The sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished
no more. Her own emotions still kept her fixed. She
had much to recover from, before she could move. The
listener's proverbial fate was not absolutely hers ; she
had heard no evil of herself, — but she had heard a great
deal of very painful import. She saw how her own
character was considered by Captain Wentworth ; and
there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity
about her in his manner, which must give her extreme
agitation.
As soon as she could, she went after Mary, and having
found, and walked back with her to their former station,
by the stile, felt some comfort in their whole party being
immediately afterwards collected, and once more in
motion together. Her spirits wanted the solitude and
silence which only numbers could give.
Charles and Henrietta returned, bringing, as may be
conjectured, Charles Hayter with them. The minutiae
of the business Anne could not attempt to understand ;
even Captain Wentworth did not seem admitted to perfect
confidence here ; but that there had been a withdrawing
on the gentleman's side, and a relenting on the lady's,
and that they were now very glad to be together again,
did not admit a doubt. Henrietta looked a little ashamed,
but very well pleased ; — Charles Hayter exceedingly
happy, and they were devoted to each other almost from
the
( 90 )
the first instant of their all setting forward for Upper-
cross.
Every thing now marked out Louisa for Captain
Wentworth ; nothing could be plainer ; and where many
divisions were necessary, or even where they were not,
they walked side by side, nearly as much as the other two.
In a long strip of meadow-land, where there was ample
space for all, they were thus divided — forming three
distinct parties ; and to that party of the three which
boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne
necessarily belonged. She joined Charles and Mary, and
was tired enough to be very glad of Charles's other arm ;
— but Charles, though in very good humour with her,
was out of temper with his wife. Mary had shewn herself
disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence,
which consequence was his dropping her arm almost
every moment, to cut off the heads of some nettles in
the hedge with his switch ; and when Mary began to
complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according
to custom, in being on the hedge side, while Anne was
never incommoded on the other, he dropped the arms of
both to hunt after a weasel which he had a momentary
glance of; and they could hardly get him along at all.
This long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath,
at the end of it, was to cross ; and when the party had
all reached the gate of exit, the carriage advancing in
the same direction, which had been some time heard,
was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft's
gig. — He and his wife had taken their intended drive,
and were returning home. Upon hearing how long a walk
the young people had engaged in, they kindly offered
a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired ; it
would save her full a mile, and they were going through
Uppercross. The invitation was general, and generally
declined. The Miss Musgroves were not at all tired, and
Mary was either offended, by not being asked before any
of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride could
not endure to make a third in a one horse chaise.
The
( 91 )
The walking-party had crossed the lane, and were
surmounting an opposite stile ; and the admiral was
putting his horse into motion again, when Captain Went-
worth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something to
his sister. — The something might be guessed by its effects.
" Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired," cried Mrs. Croft.
" Do let us have the pleasure of taking you home. Here
is excellent room for three, I assure you. If we were all
like you, I believe we might sit four. — You must, indeed,
you must."
Anne was still in the lane ; and though instinctively
beginning to decline, she was not allowed to proceed. The
admiral's kind urgency came in support of his wife's ;
they would not be refused ; they compressed themselves
into the smallest possible space to leave her a corner, and
Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her,
and quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage.
Yes, — he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt
that he had placed her there, that his will and his hands ^
had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her i
fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. She was very ^
much affected by the view of his disposition towards her
which all these things made apparent. This little cir-
cumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone
before. She understood him. He could not forgive her, —
but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her
for the past, and considering it with high and unjust
resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though
becoming attached to another, still he could not see her
suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was
a remainder of former sentiment ; it was an impulse of
pure, though unacknowledged friendship ; it was a proof
of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not
contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure
and pain, that she knew not which prevailed.
Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her
companions were at first unconsciously given. They had
travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she
was
«
( 92 )
was quite awake to what they said. She then found
them talking of " Frederick."
" He certainly means to have one or other of those
two girls, Sophy," said the admiral ; — " but there is no
saying which. He has been running after them, too,
long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay,
this comes of the peace. If it were war, now, he would
have settled it long ago. — We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot
afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many
days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing
you, and our sitting down together in our lodgings at
North Yarmouth ? "
" We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied
Mrs. Croft, pleasantly ; " for if Miss Elliot were to hear
how soon we came to an understanding, she would never
be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had
known you by character, however, long before."
" Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl ;
and what were we to wait for besides ? — I do not like
having such things so long in hand. I wish Frederick
would spread a little more canvas, and bring us home one
of these young ladies to Kellynch. Then, there would
always be company for them. — And very nice young
ladies they both are ; I hardly know one from the other."
" Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed," said
Mrs. Croft, in a tone of calmer praise, such as made Anne
suspect that her keener powers might not consider either
of them as quite worthy of her brother ; " and a very
respectable family. One could not be connected with
better people. — My dear admiral, that post ! — we shall
certainly take that post."
But by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself,
they happily passed the danger ; and by once afterwards
judiciously putting out her hand,- they neither fell into
a rut, nor ran foul of a dung- cart ; and Anne, with some
amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined no
bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs,
found herself safely deposited by them at the cottage.
CHAP-
( 93 )
CHAPTER XI.
The time now approached for Lady Russell's return ;
the day was even fixed, and Anne, being engaged to join
her as soon as she was resettled, was looking forward to
an early removal to Kellynch, and beginning to think
how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it.
It would place her in the same village with Captain
Wentworth, within half a mile of him ; they would have
to frequent the same church, and there must be inter-
course between the two families. This was against her ;
but, on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at
Uppercross, that in removing thence she might be con-
sidered rather as leaving him behind, than as going to-
wards him ; and, upon the whole, she believed she must,
on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as
certainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving
poor Mary for Lady Russell.
She wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever
seeing Captain Wentworth at the hall ; — those rooms had
witnessed former meetings which would be brought too
painfully before her ; but she was yet more anxious for
the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth
never meeting any where. They did not like each other,
and no renewal of acquaintance now could do any good ;
and were Lady Russell to see them together, she might
think that he had too much self-possession, and she too
little.
These points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating
her removal from Uppercross, where she felt she had
been stationed quite long enough. Her usefulness to
little Charles would always give some sweetness to the
memory of her two months visit there, but he was gaining
strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for.
The conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified
in
( 94 )
in a way which she had not at all imagined. Captain
Wentworth, after being unseen and unheard of at Upper-
cross for two whole days, appeared again among them to
justify himself by a relation of what had kept him away.
A letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found
him out at last, had brought intelligence of Captain
Harville's being settled with his family at Lyme for the
winter ; of their being, therefore, quite unknowingly,
within twenty miles of each other. Captain Harville
had never been in good health since a severe wound which
he received two years before, and Captain Wentworth' s
anxiety to see him had determined him to go immediately
to Lyme. He had been there for four- and- twenty hours.
His acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly
honoured, a lively interest excited for his friend, and his
description of the fine country about Lyme so feelingly
attended to by the party, that an earnest desire to see
Lyme themselves, and a project for going thither was the
consequence.
The young people were all wild to see Lyme. Captain
Wentworth talked of going there again himself ; it was
only seventeen miles from Uppercross ; though Novem-
ber, the weather was by no means bad ; and, in short,
Louisa, who was the most eager of the eager, having
formed the resolution to go, and besides the pleasure of
doing as she liked, being now armed with the idea of
merit in maintaining her own way, bore down all the
wishes of her father and mother for putting it off till
summer ; and to Lyme they were to go — Charles, Marj^
Anne, Henrietta, Louisa, and Captain Wentworth.
The first heedless scheme had been to go in the morning
and return at night, but to this Mr. Musgrove, for the sake
of his horses, would not consent ; and when it came to
be rationally considered, a day in the middle of Novem-
ber would not leave much time for seeing a new place,
after deducting seven hours, as the nature of the country
required, for going and returning. They were conse-
quently to stay the night there, and not to be expected
back
( 95 )
back till the next day's dinner. This was felt to be
a considerable amendment ; and though they all met
at the Great House at rather an early breakfast hour, and
set off very punctually, it was so much past noon before
the two carriages, Mr. Musgrove's coach containing the
four ladies, and Charles's curricle, in which he drove
Captain Wentworth, were descending the long hill into
Lyme, and entering upon the still steeper street of the
town itself, that it was very evident they would not have
more than time for looking about them, before the light
and warmth of the day were gone.
After securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner
at one of the inns, the next thing to be done was unques-
tionably to walk directly down to the sea. They were
come too late in the year for any amusement or variety
which Lyme, as a public place, might offer ; the rooms
were shut up, the lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any
family but of the residents left — and, as there is nothing
to admire in the buildings themselves, the remarkable
situation of the town, the principal street almost hurrying
into the water, the walk to the Cobb, skirting round the
pleasant little bay, which in the season is animated with
bathing machines and company, the Cobb itself, its old
wonders and new improvements, with the very beautiful
line of cliffs stretching out to the east of the town, are
what the stranger's eye will seek ; and a very strange
stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the
immediate environs of Lyme, to make him wish to know
it better. The scenes in its neighbourhood, Charmouth,
with its high grounds and extensive sweeps of country,
and still more its sweet retired bay, backed by dark cliffs,
where fragments of low rock among the sands make it
the happiest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for
sitting in unwearied contemplation ; — the woody varieties
of the cheerful village of Up Lyme, and, above all. Pinny,
with its green chasms between romantic rocks, where the
scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant growth
declare that many a generation must have passed away
since
( 96 )
since the first partial falling of the cliff prepared the
ground for such a state, where a scene so wonderful and
so lovely is exhibited, as may more than equal any of the
resembling scenes of the far-famed Isle of Wight : these
places must be visited, and visited again, to make the
worth of Lyme understood.
The party from Uppercross passing down by the now
deserted and melancholy looking rooms, and still descend-
ing, soon found themselves on the sea shore, and lingering
only, as all must linger and gaze on a first return to the
sea, who ever deserve to look on it at all, proceeded
towards the Cobb, equally their object in itself and on
Captain Wentworth's account ; for in a small house, near
the foot of an old pier of unknown date, were the Harvilles
settled. Captain Wentworth turned in to call on his
friend ; the others walked on, and he was to join them on
the Cobb.
They were by no means tired of wondering and admir-
ing ; and not even Louisa seemed to feel that they had
parted with Captain Wentworth long, when they saw him
coming after them, with three companions, all well
known already by description to be Captain and Mrs. Har-
ville, and a Captain Ben wick, who was staying with them.
Captain Benwick had some time ago been first lieutenant
of the Laconia ; and the account which Captain Went-
worth had given of him, on his return from Lyme before ;
his warm praise of him as an excellent young man and
an officer, whom he had always valued highly, which
must have stamped him well in the esteem of every
listener, had been followed by a little history of his private
life, which rendered him perfectly interesting in the eyes
of all the ladies. He had been engaged to Captain
Harville's sister, and was now mourning her loss. They
had been a year or two waiting for fortune and promotion.
Fortune came, his prize-money as lieutenant being great,
— promotion, too, came at last ; but Fanny Harville did
not live to know it. She had died the preceding summer,
while he was at sea. Captain Wentworth believed it
impossible
( 97 )
impossible for man to be more attached to woman than
poor Benwick had been to Fanny Harville, or to be more
deeply afflicted under the dreadful change. He considered
his disposition as of the sort which must suffer heavily,
uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and
retiring manners, and a decided taste for reading, and
sedentary pursuits. To finish the interest of the story,
the friendship between him and the Harvilles seemed, if
possible, augmented by the event which closed all their
views of alliance, and Captain Benwick was now living
with them entirely. Captain Harville had taken his
present house for half a year, his taste, and his health,
and his fortune all directing him to a residence unexpen-
sive, and by the sea ; and the grandeur of the country,
and the retirement of Lyme in the winter, appeared
exactly adapted to Captain Benwick's state of mind.
The sympathy and good-will excited towards Captain
Benwick was very great.
" And yet," said Anne to herself, as they now moved
forward to meet the party, " he has not, perhaps, a more
sorrowing heart than I have. I cannot believe his
prospects so blighted for ever. He is younger than I am ;
younger in feeling, if not in fact ; younger as a man.
He will rally again, and be happy with another."
They all met, and were introduced. Captain Harville
was a tall, dark man, with a sensible, benevolent coun-
tenance ; a little lame ; and from strong features, and
want of health, looking much older than Captain Went-
worth. Captain Benwick looked and was the youngest
of the three, and, compared with either of them, a little
man. He had a pleasing face and a melancholy air, just
as he ought to have, and drew back from conversation.
Captain Harville, though not e^qualling Captain Went-
worth in manners, was a perfect gentleman, unaffected,
warm, and obliging. Mrs. Harville, a degree less polished
than her husband, seemed however to have the same good
feelings ; and nothing could be more pleasant than their
desire of considering the whole party as friends of their
own.
( 98 )
own, because the friends of Captain Wentworth, or more
kindly hospitable than their entreaties for their all
promising to dine with them. The dinner, already ordered
at the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted as
an excuse ; but they seemed almost hurt that Captain
Wentworth should have brought any such party to Lyme,
without considering it as a thing of course that they
should dine with them.
There was so much attachment to Captain Wentworth
in all this, and such a bewitching charm in a degree of
hospitality so uncommon, so unlike the usual style of
give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality and
display, that Anne felt her spirits not likely to be bene-
fited by an increasing acquaintance among his brother-
officers. " These would have been all my friends," was
her thought ; and she had to struggle against a great
tendency to lowness.
On quitting the Cobb, they all went indoors with their
new friends, and found rooms so small as none but those
/ who invite from the heart could think capable of accom-
modating so many. Anne had a moment's astonishment on
the subject herself ; but it was soon lost in the pleasanter
feelings which sprang from the sight of all the ingenious
contrivances and nice arrangements of Captain Harville,
to turn the actual space to the best possible account, to
supply the deficiencies of lodging-house furniture, and
defend the windows and doors against the winter storms
to be expected. The varieties in the fitting-up of the
rooms, where the common necessaries provided by the
owner, in the common indifferent plight, were contrasted
with some few articles of a rare species of wood, excellently
worked up, and with something curious and valuable
from all the distant countries Captain Harville had
visited, were more than amusing to Anne : connected
as it all was with his profession, the fruit of its labours,
the effect of its influence on his habits, the picture of
repose and domestic happiness it presented, made it to
her a something more, or less, than gratification.
Captain
( 99 )
Captain Harville was no reader ; but he had contrived
excellent accommodations, and fashioned very pretty-
shelves, for a tolerable collection of well-bound volumes,
the property of Captain Benwick. His lameness pre-
vented him from taking much exercise ; but a mind of
usefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with
constant employment within. He drew, he varnished,
he carpentered, he glued ; he made toys for the children,
he fashioned new netting- needles and pins with improve-
ments ; and if every thing else was done, sat down to
his large fishing- net at one corner of the room.
Anne thought she left great happiness behind her
when they quitted the house ; and Louisa, by whom she
found herself walking, burst forth into raptures of admira-
tion and delight on the character of the navy — their
friendliness, their brotherliness, their openness, their
uprightness ; protesting that she was convinced of sailors
having more worth and warmth than any other set of
men in England ; that they only knew how to live, and
they only deserved to be respected and loved.
They went back to dress and dine ; and so well had the
scheme answered already, that nothing was found amiss ;
though its being " so entirely out of the season," and the
*' no-thorough-fare of Lyme," and the '' no expectation
of company," had brought many apologies from the heads
of the inn.
Anne found herself by this time growing so much more
hardened to being in Captain Wentworth's company than
she had at first imagined could ever be, that the sitting
down to the same table with him now, and the interchange
of the common civilities attending on it — (they never
got beyond) was become a mere nothing.
The nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again
till the morrow, but Captain Harville had promised them
a visit in the evening ; and he came, bringing his friend
also, which was more than had been expected, it having
been agreed that Captain Benwick had all the appearance
of being oppressed by the presence of so many strangers.
He
( 100 )
He ventured among them again, however, though his
spirits certainly did not seem fit for the mirth of the party
in general.
While Captains Wentworth and Harville led the talk
on one side of the room, and, by recurring to former days,
supplied anecdotes in abundance to occupy and entertain
the others, it fell to Anne's lot to be placed rather apart
with Captain Benwick ; and a very good impulse of her
nature obliged her to begin an acquaintance with him.
He was shy, and disposed to abstraction ; but the
engaging mildness of her countenance, and gentleness of
her manners, soon had their effect ; and Anne was well
repaid the first trouble of exertion. He was evidently
a young man of considerable taste in reading, though
principally in poetry ; and besides the persuasion of
having given him at least an evening's indulgence in the
discussion of subjects, which his usual companions had
probably no concern in, she had the hope of being of
real use to him in some suggestions as to the duty and
benefit of struggling against affliction, which had naturally
grown out of their conversation. For, though shy, he
did not seem reserved ; it had rather the appearance of
feelings glad to burst their usual restraints ; and having
talked of poetry, the richness of the present age, and gone
through a brief comparison of opinion as to the first-rate
poets, trying to ascertain whether Marmion or The Lady
of the Lake were to be preferred, and how ranked the
Giaour and The Bride of Ahydos ; and moreover, how
the Giaour was to be pronounced, he shewed himself so
intimately acquainted with all the tenderest songs of
the one poet, and all the impassioned descriptions of
hopeless agony of the other ; he repeated, with such
tremulous feeling, the various lines which imaged a broken
heart, or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, and looked
so entirely as if he meant to be understood, that she
ventured to hope he did not always read only poetry ;
and to say, that she thought it was the misfortune of
poetry, to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed
it
( 101 )
it completely ; and that the strong feehngs which alone
could estimate it truly, were the very feelings which
ought to taste it but sparingly.
His looks shewing him not pained, but pleased with
this allusion to his situation, she was emboldened to go
on ; and feeling in herself the right of seniority of mind,
she ventured to recommend a larger allowance of prose
in his daily study ; and on being requested to particularize,
mentioned such works of our best moralists, such collec-
tions of the finest letters, such memoirs of characters
of worth and suffering, as occurred to her at the moment
as calculated to rouse and fortify the mind by the highest
precepts, and the strongest examples of moral and religious
endurances.
Captain Benwick listened attentively, and seemed
grateful for the interest implied ; and though with a shake
of the head, and sighs which declared his little faith in
the efficacy of any books on grief like his, noted down
the names of those she recommended, and promised to
procure and read them.
When the evening was over, Anne could not but be
amused at the idea of her coming to Lyme, to preach
patience and resignation to a young man whom she had
never seen before ; nor could she help fearing, on more
serious reflection, that, like many other great moralists
and preachers, she had been eloquent on a point in which
her own conduct would ill bear examination.
A7815 A a CHAP-
( 102 )
CHAPTER XII.
Anne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest
of the party the next morning, agreed to stroll down to
the sea before breakfast. — ^They went to the sands, to
watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine south-easterly
breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so flat
a shore admitted. They praised the morning ; gloried
in the sea ; sympathized in the delight of the fresh- feeling
breeze — and were silent ; till Henrietta suddenly began
again, with,
" Oh ! yes, — ^I am quite convinced that, with very
few exceptions, the sea-air always does good. There can
be no doubt of its having been of the greatest service to
Dr. Shirley, after his illness, last spring twelvemonth.
He declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month,
did him more good than all the medicine he took ; and,
that being by the sea, always makes him feel young
again. Now, I cannot help thinking it a pity that he does
not live entirely by the sea. I do think he had better
leave Uppercross entirely, and fix at Lyme. — Do not you,
Anne ? — Do not you agree with me, that it is the best
thing he could do, both for himself and Mrs. Shirley ? —
She has cousins here, you know, and many acquaintance,
which would make it cheerful for her, — and I am sure
she would be glad to get to a place where she could have
medical attendance at hand, in case of his having another
seizure. Indeed I think it quite melancholy to have
such excellent people as Dr. and Mrs. Shirley, who have
been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last
days in a place like Uppercross, where, excepting our
family, they seem shut out from all the world. I wish his
friends would propose it to him. I really think they ought.
And, as to procuring a dispensation, there could be no
difficulty at his time of life, and with his character. My
only
( 103 )
only doubt is, whether any thing could persuade him to
leave his parish. He is so very strict and scrupulous in
his notions ; over-scrupulous, I must say. Do not you
think, Anne, it is being over- scrupulous ? Do not you
think it is quite a mistaken point of conscience, when
a clergyman sacrifices his health for the sake of duties,
which may be just as well performed by another person ? —
And at Lyme too, — only seventeen miles off, — he would
be near enough to hear, if people thought there was any
thing to complain of."
Anne smiled more than once to herself during this
speech, and entered into the subject, as ready to do good
by entering into the feelings of a young lady as of a young
man, — though here it was good of a lower standard, for
what could be offered but general acquiescence ? — She
said all that was reasonable and proper on the business ;
felt the claims of Dr. Shirley to repose, as she ought ; saw
how very desirable it was that he should have some active,
respectable young man, as a resident curate, and was
even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such
resident curate's being married.
" I wish," said Henrietta, very well pleased with her
companion, " I wish Lady Russell lived at Uppercross,
and were intimate with Dr. Shirley. I have always heard
of Lady Russell, as a woman of the greatest influence with
every body ! I always look upon her as able to persuade
a person to any thing ! I am afraid of her, as I have told
you before, quite afraid of her, because she is so very
clever ; but I respect her amazingly, and wish we had
such a neighbour at Uppercross."
Anne was amused by Henrietta's manner of being
grateful, and amused also, that the course of events and
the new interests of Henrietta's views should have placed
her friend at all in favour with any of the Musgrove family ;
she had only time, however, for a general answer, and
a wish that such another woman were at Uppercross,
before all subjects suddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa
and Captain Wentworth coming towards them. They
A a 2 came
( 104 )
came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be ready ;
but Louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards, that she
had something to procure at a shop, invited them all to
go back with her into the town. They were all at her
disposal.
When they came to the steps, leading upwards from
the beach, a gentleman at the same moment preparing
to come down, politely drew back, and stopped to give
them way. They ascended and passed him ; and as they
passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her
with a degree of earnest admiration, which she could not
be insensible of. She was looking remarkably well ; her
very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and
freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had
been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation
of eye which it had also produced. It was evident that
the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner)
admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked
round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing
of it. He gave her a momentary glance, — a glance of
brightness, which seemed to say, " That man is struck
with you, — and even I, at this moment, see something
like Anne Elliot again."
After attending Louisa through her business, and
loitering about a little longer, they returned to the inn ;
and Anne in passing afterwards quickly from her own
chamber to their dining-room, had nearly run against
the very same gentleman, as he came out of an adjoining
apartment. She had before conjectured him to be
a stranger like themselves, and determined that a well-
looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns
as they came back, should be his servant. Both master
and man being in mourning, assisted the idea. It was
now proved that he belonged to the same inn as them-
selves ; and this second meeting, short as it was, also
proved again by the gentleman's looks, that he thought
hers very lovely, and by the readiness and propriety of
his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good
manners.
( 105 )
manners. He seemed about thirty, and, though not
handsome, had an agreeable person. Anne felt that she
should like to know who he was.
They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of
a carriage, (almost the first they had heard since entering
Lyme) drew half the party to the window. " It was
a gentleman's carriage — a curricle — but only coming
round from the stable- yard to the front door — Somebody
must be going away. — It was driven by a servant in
mourning."
The word curricle made Charies Musgrove jump up,
that he might compare it with his own, the servant in
mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and the whole six
were collected to look, by the time the owner of the
curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the
bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat,
to drive off.
" Ah ! " cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with
half a glance at Anne ; " it is the very man we passed."
The Miss Musgroves agreed to it ; and having all
kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they
returned to the breakfast-table. The waiter came into
the room soon afterwards.
" Pray," said Captain Wentworth, hnmediately, " can
you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone
away ? "
" Yes, Sir, a Mr. ElHot ; a gentleman of large fortune, —
came in last night from Sidmouth, — dare say you heard
the carriage. Sir, while you were at dinner ; and going on
now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London."
" EUiot ! " — Many had looked on each other, and
many had repeated the name, before all this had been got
through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter.
" Bless me ! " cried Mary ; "it must be our cousin ; —
it must be our Mr. Elliot, it must, indeed ! — Charles,
Anne, must not it ? In mourning, you see, just as our
Mr. Elliot must be. How very extraordinary ! In the
very same inn with us ! Anne, must not it be our Mr.
Elliot;
( 106 )
Elliot ; my father's next heir ? Pray Sir," (turning to
the waiter), " did not you hear, — did not his servant say
whether he belonged to the Kellynch family ? "
" No, ma'am, — he did not mention no particular
family ; but he said his master was a very rich gentleman,
and would be a baronight some day."
" There ! you see ! " cried Mary, in an ecstacy, " Just
as I said ! Heir to Sir Walter ElUot ! — I was sure that
would come out, if it was so. Depend upon it, that is
a circumstance which his servants take care to publish
wherever he goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extra-
ordinary ! I wish I had looked at him more. I wish we
had been aware in time, who it was, that he might have
been introduced to us. What a pity that we should not
have been introduced to each other ! — Do you think he
had the Elliot countenance ? I hardly looked at him,
I was looking at the horses ; but I think he had something
of the Elliot countenance. I wonder the arms did not
strike me ! Oh ! — the great-coat was hanging over the
pannel, and hid the arms ; so it did, otherwise, I am sure,
I should have observed them, and the livery too ; if the
servant had not been in mourning, one should have known
him by the livery."
" Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances
together," said Captain Wentworth, " we must consider
it to be the arrangement of Providence, that you should
not be introduced to your cousin."
When she could command Mary's attention, Anne
quietly tried to convince her that their father and
Mr. Elliot had not, for many years, been on such terms
as to make the power of attempting an introduction at
all desirable.
At the same time, however, it was a secret gratification
to herself to have seen her cousin, and to know that the
future owner of Kellynch was undoubtedly a gentleman,
and had an air of good sense. She would not, upon any
account, mention her having met with him the second
time ; luckily Mary did not much attend to their having
passed
( 107 )
passed close by him in their early walk, but she would
have felt quite ill-used by Anne's having actually run
against him in the passage, and received his very polite
excuses, while she had never been near him at all ; no, that
cousinly little interview must remain a perfect secret.
" Of course," said Mary, " you will mention our seeing
Mr. Elliot, the next time you write to Bath. I think my
father certainly ought to hear of it ; do mention all about
him."
Anne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circum-
stance which she considered as not merely unnecessary to
be communicated, but as what ought to be suppressed.
The offence which had been given her father, many years
back, she knew ; Elizabeth's particular share in it she
suspected ; and that Mr. Elliot's idea always produced
irritation in both, was beyond a doubt. Mary never
wrote to Bath herself ; all the toil of keeping up a slow
and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell on
Anne.
Breakfast had not been long over, when they were
joined by Captain and Mrs. Harville, and Captain Benwick,
with whom they had appointed to take their last walk
about Lyme. They ought to be setting off for Uppercross
by one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together,
and out of doors as long as they could.
Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon
as they were all fairly in the street. Their conversation,
the preceding evening, did not disincline him to seek her
again ; and they walked together some time, talking as
before of Mr. Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable,
as before, and as unable as any other two readers, to think
exactly alike of the merits of either, till something
occasioned an almost general change amongst their party,
and instead of Captain Benwick, she had Captain Harville
by her side.
" Miss Elliot," said he, speaking rather low, " you have
done a good deed in making that poor fellow talk so much.
I wish he could have such company oftener. It is bad
for
( 108 )
for him, I know, to he shut up as he is ; but what can we
do ? we cannot part."
" No," said Anne, " that I can easily beUeve to be
impossible ; but in time, perhaps — we know what time
does in every case of affliction, and you must remember,
Captain Harville, that your friend may yet be called
a young mourner — -Only last summer, I understand."
" Ay, true enough," (with a deep sigh) " only June."
" And not known to him, perhaps, so soon."
*' Not till the first week in August, when he came home
from the Cape, — just made into the Grappler. I was at
Plymouth, dreading to hear of him ; he sent in letters,
but the Grappler was under orders for Portsmouth.
There the news must follow him, but who was to tell it ?
not I. I would as soon have been run up to the yard-arm.
Nobody could do it, but that good fellow, (pointing to
Captain Wentworth.) The Laconia had come into
Plymouth the week before ; no danger of her being sent
to sea again. He stood his chance for the rest — wrote up
for leave of absence, but without waiting the return,
travelled night and day till he got to Portsmouth, rowed
off to the Grappler that instant, and never left the poor
fellow for a week ; that 's what he did, and nobody else
could have saved f>oor James. You may think, Miss
Elliot, whether he is dear to us ! "
Anne did think on the question with perfect decision,
and said as much in reply as her own feelings could
accomplish, or as his seemed able to bear, for he was too
much affected to renew the subject — and when he spoke
again, it was of something totally different.
Mrs. Harville's giving it as her opinion that her husband
would have quite walking enough by the time he reached
home, determined the direction of all the party in what
was to be their last walk ; they would accompany them
to their door, and then return and set off themselves.
By all their calculations there was just time for this ;
but as they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general
wish to walk along it once more, all were so inclined,
and
( 109 )
and Louisa soon grew so determined, that the difference of
a quarter of an hour, it was found, would be no difference
at all, so with all the kind leave-taking, and all the kind
interchange of invitations and promises which may be
imagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs. Harville
at their own door, and still accompanied by Captain
Benwick, who seemed to cHng to them to the last, pro-
ceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb.
Anne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her.
Lord Byron's " dark blue seas " could not fail of being
brought forward by their present view, and she gladly
gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible.
It was soon drawn per force another way.
There was too much wind to make the high part of the
new Cobb pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to get
down the steps to the lower, and all were contented to
pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight, excepting
Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain
Wentworth. In all their walks, he had had to jump her
from the stiles ; the sensation was delightful to her. The
hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less
willing upon the present occasion ; he did it, however ;
she was safely down, and instantly, to shew her enjoy-
ment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. He
advised her against it, thought the jar too great ; but no,
he reasoned and talked in vain ; she smiled and said,
" I am determined I will : " he put out his hands ; she
was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the
pavement on the Lower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless !
There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise ; but
her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like
death. — The horror of that moment to all who stood
around !
Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with
her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her
own, in an agony of silence. " She is dead ! she is dead ! "
screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and con-
tributing with his own horror to make him immoveable ;
and
( 110 )
and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the
conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on
the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught
and supported her between them.
" Is there no one to help me ? " were the first words
which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair,
and as if all his own strength were gone.
" Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, *' for heaven's
sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me,
and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples ; here
are salts, — take them, take them."
Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same
moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were
both with him ; and Louisa was raised up and supported
more firmly between them, and every thing was done
that Anne had prompted, but in vain ; while Captain
Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support,
exclaimed in the bitterest agony,
" Oh God ! her father and mother ! "
" A surgeon ! " said Anne.
He caught the word ; it seemed to rouse him at once,
and saying only " True, true, a surgeon this instant,"
was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested,
" Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain
Benwick ? He knows where a surgeon is to be found."
Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of
the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid
moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-
like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for
the town with the utmost rapidity.
As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely
be said which of the three, who were completely rational,
was suffering most. Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles,
who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa
with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one
sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness
the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for
help which he could not give.
Anne,
( 111 ) __
Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and
thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried,
at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to \
quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings^^ )
of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for
directions.
" Anne, Anne," cried Charles, " what is to be ddne
next ? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next ? "
Captain Wentworth' s eyes were also turned towards her.
" Had not she better be carried to the inn ? Yes, I am
sure, carry her gently to the inn."
" Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth,
comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something.
*' I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the
others."
By this time the report of the accident had spread
among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and
many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted,
at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay,
two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the
first report. To some of the best-looking of these good
people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially
revived, she was quite helpless ; and in this manner,
Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his
wife, they set forward, treading back with feehngs
unutterable, the ground which so lately, so very lately,
and so light of heart, they had passed along.
They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met
them. Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their
house, with a countenance which shewed something to
be wrong ; and they had set off immediately, informed
and directed, as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked
as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves
that could be instantly useful ; and a look between him
and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be
taken to their house — all must go to their house — and
wait the surgeon's arrival there. They would not listen
to scruples : he was obeyed ; they were all beneath his
roof;
( 112 )
roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs. Harville's direction,
was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own
bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by
her husband to all who needed them.
Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them
again, without apparent consciousness. This had been
a proof of life, however, of service to her sister ; and
Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same
room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and
fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too,
was growing calmer.
The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed
possible. They were sick with horror while he examined ;
but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe
contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered
from : he was by no means hopeless ; he spoke cheerfully.
That he did not regard it as a desperate case — that he
did not say a few hours must end it — was at first felt,
beyond the hope of most ; and the ecstasy of such
a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few
fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been
offered, may be conceived.
The tone, the look, with which " Thank God ! " was
uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could
never be forgotten by her ; nor the sight of him afterwards,
as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms,
and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various
feelings of his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection
to calm them.
Louisa's limbs had escaped. There was no injury but
to the head.
It now became necessary for the party to consider what
was best to be done, as to their general situation. They
were now able to speak to each other, and consult. That
Louisa must remain where she was, however distressing
to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such
trouble, did not admit a doubt. Her removal was im-
possible. The Harvilles silenced all scruples ; and, as
much
( 113 )
much as they could, all gratitude. They had looked for-
ward and arranged every thing, before the others began
to reflect. Captain Benwick must give up his room to
them, and get a bed elsewhere — and the whole was
settled. They were only concerned that the house could
accommodate no more ; and yet perhaps by " putting
the children away in the maids' room, or swinging a cot
somewhere," they could hardly bear to think of not
finding room for two or three besides, supposing they might
wish to stay ; though, with regard to any attendance on
Miss Musgrove, there need not be the least uneasiness in
leaving her to Mrs. Harville's care entirely. Mrs. Harville
was a very experienced nurse ; and her nursery-maid,
who had lived with her long and gone about with her every
where, was just such another. Between those two, she
could want no possible attendance by day or night. And
all this was said with a truth and sincerity of feeling
irresistible.
Charles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the
three in consultation, and for a little while it was only
an interchange of perplexity and terror. " Uppercross, —
the necessity of some one's going to Uppercross, — the
news to be conveyed — how it could be broken to Mr. and
Mrs. Musgrove — the lateness of the morning, — an hour
already gone since they ought to have been off, — the
impossibility of being in tolerable time. At first, they
were capable of nothing more to the purpose than such
exclamations ; but, after a while. Captain Wentworth,
exerting himself, said,
" We must be decided, and without the loss of another
minute. Every minute is valuable. Some must resolve
on being off for Uppercross instantly. Musgrove, either
you or I must go."
Charles agreed ; but declared his resolution of not
going away. He would be as little incumbrance as possible
to Captain and Mrs. Harville ; but as to leaving his
sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor would. So
far it was decided ; and Henrietta at first declared the
same.
( 114 )
same. She, however, was soon persuaded to think
differently. The usefulness of her staying ! — She, who
had not been able to remain in Louisa's room, or to look
at her, without sufferings which made her v/orse than
helpless ! She was forced to acknowledge that she could
do no good ; yet was still unwilling to be away, till touched
by the thought of her father and mother, she gave it up ;
she consented, she was anxious to be at home.
The plan had reached this point, when Anne, coming
quietly down from Louisa's room, could not but hear
what followed, for the parlour door was open.
" Then it is settled, Musgrove," cried Captain Went-
worth, " that you stay, and that I take care of your
sister home. But as to the rest ; — as to the others ; —
If one stays to assist Mrs. Harville, I think it need be
only one. — Mrs. Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish
to get back to her children ; but, if Anne will stay, no
one so proper, so capable as Anne ! "
She paused a moment to recover from the emotion of
hearing herself so spoken of. The other two warmly
agreed to what he said, and she then appeared.
" You will stay, I am sure ; you will stay and nurse
her ; " cried he, turning to her and speaking with a glow,
and yet a gentleness, which seemed almost restoring the
past. — She coloured deeply ; and he recollected himself,
and moved away. — She expressed herself most willing,
ready, happy to remain. " It was what she had been
thinking of, and wishing to be allowed to do. — A bed on
the floor in Louisa's room would be sufficient for her, if
Mrs. Harville would but think so."
One thing more, and all seemed arranged. Though it
was rather desirable that Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove should
be previously alarmed by some share of delay ; yet the
time required by the Uppercross horses to take them back,
would be a dreadful extension of suspense ; and Captain
Wentworth proposed, and Charles Musgrove agreed, that
it would be much better for him to take a chaise from the
inn, and leave Mr. Musgrove's carriage and horses to be
sent
( 115 )
sent home the next morning early, when there would be the
farther advantage of sending an account of Louisa's night.
Captain Wentworth now hurried off to get every thing
ready on his part, and to be soon followed by the two
ladies. When the plan was made known to Mary, how-
ever, there was an end of all peace in it. She was so
wretched, and so vehement, complained so much of in-
justice in being expected to go away, instead of Anne ; —
Anne, who was nothing to Louisa, while she was her sister,
and had the best right to stay in Henrietta's stead 1
Why was not she to be as useful as Anne ? And to go
home without Charles, too — without her husband ! No,
it was too unkind ! And, in short, she said more than her
husband could long withstand ; and as none of the others
could oppose when he gave way, there was no help for
it : the change of Mary for Anne was inevitable.
Anne had never submitted more reluctantly to the
jealous and ill- judging claims of Mary ; but so it must be,
and they set off for the town, Charles taking care of his
sister, and Captain Benwick attending to her. She gave
a moment's recollection, as they hurried along, to the
little circumstances which the same spots had witnessed
earlier in the morning. There she had listened to Hen-
rietta's schemes for Dr. Shirley's leaving Uppercross ;
farther on, she had first seen Mr. Elliot ; a moment
seemed all that could now be given to any one but Louisa,
or those who were wrapt up in her welfare.
Captain Benwick was most considerately attentive to
her ; and, united as they all seemed by the distress of the
day, she felt an increasing degree of good-will towards
him, and a pleasure even in thinking that it might,
perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance.
Captain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and
a chaise and four in waiting, stationed for their conveni-
ence in the lowest part of the street ; but his evident
surprise and vexation, at the substitution of one sister for
the other — the change of his countenance — the astonish-
ment— the expressions begun and suppressed, with which
Charles
( 116 )
Charles was listened to, made but a mortifying reception
of Anne ; or must at least convince her that she was
valued only as she could be useful to Louisa.
She endeavoured to be composed, and to be just.
Without emulating the feelings of an Emma towards her
Henry, she would have attended on Louisa with a zeal
above the common claims of regard, for his sake ; and she
hoped he wouLd not long be so unjust as to suppose she
would shrink unnecessarily from the office of a friend.
In the meanwhile she was in the carriage. He had
handed them both in, and placed himself between them ;
and in this manner, under these circumstances full of
astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted Lyme.
How the long stage would pass ; how it was to affect
their manners ; what was to be their sort of intercourse,
she could not foresee. It was all quite natural, however.
He was devoted to Henrietta ; always turning towards
her ; and when he spoke at all, always with the view of
supporting her hopes and raising her spirits. In general,
his voice and manner were studiously calm. To spare
Henrietta from agitation seemed the governing principle.
Once only, when she had been grieving over the last ill-
judged, ill-fated walk to the Cobb, bitterly lamenting
that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as if
wholly overcome —
" Don't talk of it, don't talk of it," he cried. " Oh
God ! that I had not given way to her at the fatal moment !
Had I done as I ought ! But so eager and so resolute !
Dear, sweet Louisa ! "
Anne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now,
to question the justness of his own previous opinion as
to the universal felicity and advantage of firmness of
character ; and whether it might not strike him, that,
like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its
proportions and limits. She thought it could scarcely
escape him to feel, that a persuadable temper might
sometimes be as much in favour of happiness, as a very
resolute character.
They
(117)
They got on fast. Anne was astonished to recognise
the same hills and the same objects so soon. Their actual
speed, heightened by some dread of the conclusion, made
the road appear but half as long as on the day before. It
was growing quite dusk, however, before they were in
the neighbourhood of Uppercross, and there had been
total silence among them for some time, Henrietta
leaning back in the corner, with a shawl over her face,
giving the hope of her having cried herself to sleep ; when,
as they were going up their last hill, Anne found herself
all at once addressed by Captain Wentworth. In a low,
cautious voice, he said,
*' I have been considering what we had best do. She
must not appear at first. She could not stand it. I have
been thinking whether you had not better remain in the
carriage with her, while I go in and break it to Mr. and
Mrs. Musgrove. Do you think this a good plan ? "
She did : he was satisfied, and said no more. But
the remembrance of the appeal remained a pleasure to
her — as a proof of friendship, and of deference for her
judgment, a great pleasure ; and when it became a sort
of parting proof, its value did not lessen.
When the distressing communication at Uppercross
was over, and he had seen the father and mother quite
as composed as could be hoped, and the daughter all the
better for being with them, he announced his intention
of returning in the same carriage to Lyme ; and when
the horses were baited, he was off.
END OF VOL. Ill,
1781.5 B b
I: CI
NORTH ANGER ABBEY:
AND
PERSUASION.
BY THE AUTHOR OF *' PRIDE AND PREJUDICE,'*
" MANSFIELD-PARK," &C.
WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF THE
AUTHOR.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. IV.
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.
1818.
PERSUASION.
CHAPTER I.
The remainder of Anne's time at Uppercross, compre-
hending only two days, was spent entirely at the mansion-
house, and she had the satisfaction of knowing herself
extremely useful there, both as an immediate companion,
and as assisting in all those arrangements for the future,
which, in Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove's distressed state of
spirits, would have been difficulties.
They had an early account from Lyme the next morning.
Louisa was much the same. No symptoms worse than
before had appeared. Charles came a few hours after-
wards, to bring a later and more particular account. He
was tolerably cheerful. A speedy cure must not be hoped,
but every thing was going on as well as the nature of the
case admitted. In speaking of the Harvilles, he seemed
unable to satisfy his own sense of their kindness, especially
of Mrs. Harville's exertions as a nurse. " She really left
nothing for Mary to do. He and Mary had been persuaded
to go early to their inn last night. Mary had been hysteri-
cal again this morning. When he came away, she was
going to walk out with Captain Benwick, which, he hoped,
would do her good. He almost wished she had been
prevailed on to come home the day before ; but the
truth was, that Mrs. Harville left nothing for any body
to do."
Charles was to return to Lyme the same afternoon, and
his father had at first half a mind to go with him, but
the ladies could not consent. It would be going only to
multiply trouble to the others, and increase his own
distress ; and a much better scheme followed and was
acted upon. A chaise was sent for from Crewkherne, and
Charles
( 122 )
Charles conveyed back a far more useful person in the
old nursery-maid of the family, one who having brought
up all the children, and seen the very last, the lingering
and long-petted master Harry, sent to school after his
brothers, was now living in her deserted nursery to mend
stockings, and dress all the blains and bruises she could
get near her, and who, consequently, was only too happy
in being allowed to go and help nurse dear Miss Louisa.
Vague wishes of getting Sarah thither, had occurred before
to Mrs. Musgrove and Henrietta ; but without Anne, it
would hardly have been resolved on, and found practicable
so soon.
They were indebted, the next day, to Charles Hayter
for all the minute knowledge of Louisa, which it was so
essential to obtain every twenty-four hours. He made
it his business to go to Lyme, and his account was still
encouraging. The intervals of sense and consciousness
were believed to be stronger. Every report agreed in
Captain Wentworth's appearing fixed in Lyme.
Anne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which
they all dreaded. " What should they do without her ?
They were wretched comforters for one another ! " And
so much was said in this way, that Anne thought she
could not do better than impart among them the general
inclination to which she was privy, and persuade them
all to go to Lyme at once. She had little difficulty ; it
was soon determined that they would go, go to-morrow,
fix themselves at the inn, or get into lodgings, as it suited,
and there remain till dear Louisa could be moved. They
must be taking off some trouble from the good people she
was with ; they might at least relieve Mrs. Harville from
the care of her own children ; and in short they were so
happy in the decision, that Anne was delighted with what
she had done, and felt that she could not spend her last
morning at Uppercross better than in assisting their pre-
parations, and sending them off at an early hour, though
her being left to the solitary range of the house was the
consequence.
She
( 123 )
She was the last, excepting the little boys at the cottage,
she was the very last, the only remaining one of all that
had filled and animated both houses, of all that had given
Uppercross its cheerful character. A few days had made
a change indeed !
If Louisa recovered, it would all be well again. More
than former happiness would be restored. There could
not be a doubt, to her mind there was none, of what
would follow her recovery. A few months hence, and the
room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive
self, might be filled again with all that was happy and
gay, all that was glowing and bright in prosperous love,
all that was most unlike Anne Elliot !
An hour's complete leisure for such reflections as these,
on a dark November day, a small thick rain almost
blotting out the very few objects ever to be discerned
from the windows, was enough to make the sound of
Lady Russell's carriage exceedingly welcome ; and yet,
though desirous to be gone, she could not quit the
mansion-house, or look an adieu to the cottage, with its
black, dripping, and comfortless veranda, or even notice
through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of
the village, without a saddened heart. — Scenes had passed
in Uppercross, which made it precious. It stood the
record of many sensations of pain, once severe, but now
softened ; and of some instances of relenting feeling, some
breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could
never be looked for again, and which could never cease
to be dear. She left it all behind her ; all but the recol-
lection that such things had been.
Anne had never entered Kellynch since her quitting
Lady Russell's house, in September. It had not been
necessary, and the few occasions of its being possible for
her to go to the hall she had contrived to evade and
escape from. Her first return, was to resume her place
in the modern and elegant apartments of the lodge, and
to gladden the eyes of its mistress.
There was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell's joy
in
( 124 )
in meeting her. She knew who had been frequenting
Uppercross. But happily, either Anne was improved in
plumpness and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so ;
and Anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion,
had the amusement of connecting them with the silent
admiration of her cousin, and of hoping that she was to
be blessed with a second spring of youth and beauty.
When they came to converse, she was soon sensible of
some mental change. The subjects of which her heart
had been full on leaving Kellynch, and which she had
felt slighted, and been compelled to smother among the
Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest.
She had lately lost sight even of her father and sister
and Bath. Their concerns had been sunk under those of
Uppercross, and when Lady Russell reverted to their
former hopes and fears, and spoke her satisfaction in the
house in Camden-place, which had been taken, and her
regret that Mrs. Clay should still be with them, Anne
would have been ashamed to have it known, how much
more she was thinking of Lyme, and Louisa Musgrove,
and all her acquaintance there ; how much more interest-
ing to her was the home and the friendship of the Harvilles
and Captain Benwick, than her own father's house in
Camden-place, or her own sister's intimacy with Mrs. Clay.
She was actually forced to exert herself, to meet Lady
Russell with any thing like the appearance of equal
solicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim
on her.
There was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse
on another subject. They must speak of the accident at
Lyme. Lady Russell had not been arrived five minutes
the day before, when a full account of the whole had
burst on her ; but still it must be talked of, she must
make enquiries, she must regret the imprudence, lament
the result, and Captain Wentworth's name must be men-
tioned by both. Anne was conscious of not doing it so
well as Lady Russell. She could not speak the name,
and look straight forward to Lady Russell's eyie, till she
had
( 125 )
had adopted the expedient of telling her briefly what
she thought of the attachment between him and Louisa.
When this was told, his name distressed her no longer.
Lady Russell had only to listen composedly, and wish
them happy ; but internally her heart revelled in angry
pleasure, in pleased contempt, that the man who at
twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of the
value of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards,
be charmed by a Louisa Musgrove.
The first three or four days passed most quietly, with
no circumstance to mark them excepting the receipt of
a note or two from Lyme, which found their way to
Anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather
improving account of Louisa. At the end of that period,
Lady Russell's politeness could repose no longer, and the
fainter self-threatenings of the past, became in a decided
tone, ** I must call on Mrs. Croft ; I really must call upon
her soon. Anne, have you courage to go with me, and
pay a visit in that house ? It will be some trial to us both."
Anne did not shrink from it ; on the contrary, she
truly felt as she said, in observing,
" I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the
two ; your feelings are less reconciled to the change than
mine. By remaining in the neighbourhood, I am become
inured to it."
She could have said more on the subject ; for she had
in fact so high an opinion of the Crofts, and considered
her father so very fortunate in his tenants, felt the parish
to be so sure of a good example, and the poor of the best
attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed for
the necessity of the removal, she could not but in con-
science feel that they were gone who deserved not to
stay, and that Kellynch-hall had passed into better hands
than its owners'. These convictions must unquestionably
have their own pain, and severe was its kind ; but they
precluded that pain which Lady Russell would suffer in
entering the house again, and returning through the well-
known apartments.
In
( 126 )
In such moments Anne had no power of saying to
herself, " These rooms ought to belong only to us. Oh,
how fallen in their destination ! How unworthily occu-
pied ! An ancient family to be so driven away ! Strangers
filling their place ! " No, except when she thought of her
mother, and remembered where she had been used to sit
and preside, she had no sigh of that description to
heave.
Mrs. Croft always met her with a kindness which gave
her the pleasure of fancying herself a favourite ; and on
the present occasion, receiving her in that house, there
was particular attention.
The sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing
topic ; and on comparing their latest accounts of the
invalid, it appeared that each lady dated her intelligence
from the same hour of yester morn, that Captain Went-
worth had been in Kellynch yesterday — (the first time
since the accident) had brought Anne the last note, which
she had not been able to trace the exact steps of, had
staid a few hours and then returned again to Lyme — and
without any present intention of quitting it any more. —
He had enquired after her, she found, particularly ; — had
expressed his hope of Miss Elliot's not being the worse
for her exertions, and had spoken of those exertions as
great. — This was handsome, — and gave her more pleasure
than almost any thing else could have done.
yAs to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed
"only in one style by a couple of steady, sensible women,
whose judgments had to work on ascertained events ;
and it was perfectly decided that it had been the con-
sequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence ;
that its effects were most alarming, and that it was
frightful to think, how long Miss Musgrove's recovery
i might yet be doubtful, and how liable she would still
remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter ! — The
Admiral wound it all up summarily by exclaiming,
" Ay, a very bad business indeed. — A new sort of way
this, for a young fellow to be making love, by breaking
^ his
( 127 )
his mistress's head ! — ^is not it, Miss Elliot ? — This is
breaking a head and giving a plaister truly ! '*
Admiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to\
suit Lady Russell, but they delighted Anne. His goodnessj
of heart and simplicity of character were irresistible.
" Now, this must be very bad for you," said he, sud-
denly rousing from a little reverie, "to be coming and
finding us here. — I had not recollected it before, I declare,
— but it must be very bad. — But now, do not stand upon
ceremony. — Get up and go over all the rooms in the
house if you like it."
" Another time. Sir, I thank you, not now."
" Well, whenever it suits you. — You can slip in from
the shrubbery at any time. And there you will find we
keep our umbrellas, hanging up by that door. A good
place, is not it ? But " (checking himself) " you will not
think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the
butler's room. Ay, so it always is, I believe. One man's
ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our
own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether
it would be better for you to go about the house or not."
Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very grate-
fully.
" We have made very few changes either ! " continued
the Admiral, after thinking a moment. " Very few. — We
told you about the laundry-door, at Uppercross. That
has been a very great improvement. The wonder was,
how any family upon earth could bear with the incon-
venience of its opening as it did, so long ! — You will tell
Sir Walter what we have done, and that Mr. Shepherd
thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had.
Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the
few alterations we have made have been all very much
for the better. My wife should have the credit of them,
however. I have done very little besides sending away
some of the large looking-glasses from my dressing-room,
which was your father's. A very good man, and very
much the gentleman I am sure — but I should think. Miss
Elliot "
( 128 )
Elliot " (looking with serious reflection) " I should think
he must be rather a dressy man for his time of life. —
Such a number of looking-glasses ! oh Lord ! there was
no getting away from oneself. So I got Sophy to lend
me a hand, and we soon shifted their quarters ; and now
I am quite snug, with my little shaving glass in one
corner, and another great thing that I never go near."
Anne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed
for an answer, and the Admiral, fearing he might not
have been civil enough, took up the subject again, to say,
"The next time you write to your good father. Miss
Elliot, pray give my compliments and Mrs. Croft's, and
say that we are settled here quite to our liking, and have
no fault at all to find with the place. The breakfast-
room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only
when the wind is due north and blows hard, which may
not happen three times a winter. And take it altogether,
now that we have been into most of the houses here-
abouts and can judge, there is not one that we like better
than this. Pray say so, with my compliments. He will
be glad to hear it."
Lady Russell and Mrs. Croft were very well pleased
with each other ; but the acquaintance which this visit
began, was fated not to proceed far at present ; for when
it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to be
going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in
the north of the county, and probably might not be at
home again before Lady Russell would be removing to
Bath.
So ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Went-
worth at Kellynch-hall, or of seeing him in company with
her friend. Every thing was safe enough, and she smiled
over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on the
subject.
CHAP-
( 129 )
CHAPTER II.
Though Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much
longer after Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove's going, than Anne
conceived they could have been at all wanted, they were
yet the first of the family to be at home again, and as
soon as possible after their return to Uppereross, they
drove over to the lodge. — They had left Louisa beginning
to sit up ; but her head, though clear, was exceedingly^^
weak, and her nerves susceptible to the highest extreme ]
of tenderness ; and though she might be pronounced to /
be altogether doing very well, it was still impossible tof
say when she might be able to bear the removal home ; \
and her father and mother, who must return in time to C
receive their younger children for the Christmas holidays, \
had hardly a hope of being allowed to bring her with J
them. /
They had been all in lodgings together. Mrs. Musgrove
had got Mrs. Harville's children away as much as she
could, every possible supply from Uppereross had been
furnished, to lighten the inconvenience to the Harvilles,
while the Harvilles had been wanting them to come to
dinner every day ; and in short, it seemed to have been
only a struggle on each side as to which should be most
disinterested and hospitable.
Mary had had her evils ; but upon the whole, as was
evident by her staying so long, she had found more to
enjoy than to suffer. — Charles Hayter had been at Lyme
oftener than suited her, and when they dined with the
Harvilles there had been only a maid-servant to wait,
and at first, Mrs. Harville had always given Mrs. Musgrove
precedence ; but then, she had received so very hand-
some an apology from her on finding out whose daughter
she was, and there had been so much going on every day,
there had been so many walks between their lodgings
and
( 130 )
and the Harvilles, and she had got books from the library
and changed them so often, that the balance had certainly
been much in favour of Lyme. She had been taken to
Charmouth too, and she had bathed, and she had gone
to church, and there were a great many more people to
look at in the church at Lyme than at Uppercross, — and
all this, joined to the sense of being so very useful, had
made really an agreeable fortnight.
Anne enquired after Captain Benwick. Mary's face was
clouded directly. Charles laughed.
" Oh ! Captain Ben^vick is very well, I believe, but he
is a very odd young man. I do not know what he would
be at. We asked him to come home with us for a day
or two ; Charles undertook to give him some shooting,
and he seemed quite delighted, and for my part, I thought
it was all settled ; when behold ! on Tuesday night, he
made a very awkward sort of excuse ; "he never shot '*
and he had " been quite misunderstood," — and he had
promised this and he had promised that, and the end of
it was, I found, that he did not mean to come, I suppose
he was afraid of finding it dull ; but upon my word
I should have thought we were lively enough at the
Cottage for such a heart-broken man as Captain Ben-
wick."
Charles laughed again and said, " Now Mary, you know
very well how it really was. — It was all your doing,"
(turning to Anne.) " He fancied that if he went with us,
he should find you close by ; he fancied every body to
be living in Uppercross ; and when he discovered that
Lady Russell lived three miles off, his heart failed him,
and he had not courage to come. That is the fact, upon
my honour. Mary knows it is."
But Mary did not give into it very graciously ; whether
from not considering Captain Benwick entitled by birth
and situation to be in love with an Elliot, or from not
wanting to believe Anne a greater attraction to Upper-
cross than herself, must be left to be guessed. Anne's
good-will, however, was not to be lessened by what she
heard.
( 131 )
heard. She boldly acknowledged herself flattered, and
continued her enquiries.
*' Oh ! he talks of you," cried Charles, " in such
terms," — Mary interrupted him. " I declare, Charles,
I never heard him mention Anne twice all the time
I was there. I declare, Anne, he never talks of you
at all."
" No," admitted Charles, " I do not know that he ever
does, in a general way — but however, it is a very clear
thing that he admires you exceedingly. — His head is full
of some books that he is reading upon your recommenda-
tion, and he wants to talk to you about them ; he has
found out something or other in one of them which he
thinks — Oh ! I cannot pretend to remember it, but it
was something very fine — I overheard him telling Henri-
etta all about it — and then " Miss Elliot " was spoken of
in the highest terms ! — Now Mary, I declare it was so,
I heard it myself, and you were in the other room. —
" Elegance, sweetness, beauty," Oh ! there was no end
of Miss Elliot's charms."
" And I am sure," cried Mary warmly, " it was very
little to his credit, if he did. Miss Harville only died last
June. Such a heart is very little worth having ; is it,
Lady Russell ? I am sure you will agree with me."
" I must see Captain Benwick before I decide," said
Lady Russell, smiling.
" And that you are very likely to do very soon, I can
tell you, ma'am," said Charles. " Though he had not
nerves for coming away with us and setting off again
afterwards to pay a formal visit here, he will make his
way over to Kellynch one day by himself, you may
depend on it. I told him the distance and the road, and
I told him of the church's being so very well worth seeing,
for as he has a taste for those sort of things, I thought
that would be a good excuse, and he listened with all his
understanding and soul ; and I am sure from his manner
that you will have him calling here soon. So, I give you
notice, Lady Russell,"
"Any
( 132 )
" Any acquaintance of Anne's will always be welcome
to me," was Lady Russell's kind answer.
" Oh ! as to being Anne's acquaintance," said Mary,
" I think he is rather my acquaintance, for I have been
seeing him every day this last fortnight."
" Well, as your joint acquaintance, then, I shall be
very happy to see Captain Benwick."
" You will not find any thing very agreeable in him,
I assure you, ma'am. He is one of the dullest young
men that ever lived. He has walked with me, sometimes,
from one end of the sands to the other, without saying
a word. He is not at all a well-bred young man. I am
sure you will not like him."
" There we differ, Mary," said Anne. " I think Lady
Russell would like him. I think she would be so much
pleased with his mind, that she would very soon see no
deficiency in his manner."
"So do I, Anne," said Charles. " I am sure Lady
Russell would like him. He is just Lady Russell's sort.
Give him a book, and he will read all day long."
" Yes, that he will ! " exclaimed Mary, tauntingly.
" He will sit poring over his book, and not know when
a person speaks to him, or when one drops one's scissors,
or any thing that happens. Do you think Lady Russell
would Hke that ? "
Lady Russell could not help laughing. " Upon my
word," said she, " I should not have supposed that my
opinion of any one could have admitted of such difference
of conjecture, steady and matter of fact as I may call
myself. I have really a curiosity to see the person who
can give occasion to such directly opposite notions. I wish
he may be induced to call here. And when he does,
Mary, you may depend upon hearing my opinion ; but
I am determined not to judge him before-hand."
" You will not like him, I will answer for it."
Lady Russell began talking of something else. Mary
spoke with animation of their meeting with, or rather
missing, Mr. Elliot so extraordinarily.
"He
( 133 )
" He is a man," said Lady Russell, " whom I have no
wish to see. His declining to be on cordial terms with
the head of his family, has left a very strong impression
in his disfavour with me."
This decision checked Mary's eagerness, and stopped
her short in the midst of the Elliot countenance.
With regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne
hazarded no enquiries, there was voluntary communica-
tion sufficient. His spirits had been greatly recovering
lately, as might be expected. As Louisa improved, he
had improved ; and he was now quite a different creature
from what he had been the first week. He had not seen
Louisa ; and was so extremely fearful of any ill con-
sequence to her from an interview, that he did not press
for it at all ; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan
of going away for a week or ten days, till her head were
stronger. He had talked of going down to Plymouth for
a week, and wanted to persuade Captain Benwick to go
with him ; but, as Charles maintained to the last. Captain
Benwick seemed much more disposed to ride over to
Kellynch.
There can be no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne
were both occasionally thinking of Captain Benwick, from
this time. Lady Russell could not hear the door-bell
without feeling that it might be his herald ; nor could
Anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her
father's grounds, or any visit of charity in the village,
without wondering whether she might see him or hear of
him. Captain Benwick came not, however. He was
either less disposed for it than Charles had imagined, or
he was too shy ; and after giving him a week's indulgence,
Lady Russell determined him to be unworthy of the
interest which he had been beginning to excite.
The Musgroves came back to receive their happy boys
and girls from school, bringing with them Mrs. Harville's
little children, to improve the noise of Uppercross, and
lessen that of Lyme. Henrietta remained with Louisa ; but
all the rest of the family were again in their usual quarters.
"81.5 cc Lady
( 1B4 )
Lady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them
once, when Anne could not but feel that Uppercross was
already quite alive again. Though neither Henrietta, nor
Louisa, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain Wentworth were
there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could
be wished, to the last state she had seen it in.
Immediately surrounding Mrs. Musgrove were the little
Harvilles, whom she was sedulously guarding from the
tyranny of the two children from the Cottage, expressly
arrived to amuse them. On one side was a table, occupied
by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper ;
and on the other were tressels and trays, bending under
the weight of brawn and cold pies, where riotous boys
were holding high revel ; the whole completed by a roaring
Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be heard, in
spite of all the noise of the others. Charles and Mary
also came in, of course, during their visit ; and Mr. Mus-
grove made a point of paying his respects to Lady Russell,
and sat down close to her for ten minutes, talking with
a very raised voice, but, from the clamour of the children
on his knees, generally in vain. It was a fine family-piece.
Anne, judging from her own temperament, would have
deemed such a domestic hurricane a bad restorative of
the nerves, which Louisa's illness must have so greatly
shaken ; but Mrs. Musgrove, who got Anne near her on
purpose to thank her most cordially, again and again,
for all her attentions to them, concluded a short recapitula-
tion of what she had suffered herself, by observing, with
a happy glance round the room, that after all she had
gone through, nothing was so likely to do her good as
a little quiet cheerfulness at home.
Louisa was now recovering apace. Her mother could
even think of her being able to join their party at home,
before her brothers and sisters went to school again. The
Harvilles had promised to come with her and stay at
Uppercross, whenever she returned. Captain Went-
worth was gone, for the present, to see his brother in
Shropshire.
" I hope
( 135 )
" I hope I shall remember, in future," said Lady-
Russell, as soon as they were reseated in the carriage,
" not to call at Uppercross in the Christmas holidays."
Every body has their taste in noises as well as in other
matters ; and sounds are quite innoxious, or most dis-
tressing, by their sort rather than their quantity. When
Lady Russell, not long afterwards, was entering Bath on
a wet afternoon, and driving through the long course of
streets from the Old Bridge to Camden-place, amidst the
dash of other carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and
drays, the bawling of newsmen, muffin-men and milk-
men, and the ceaseless clink of pattens, she made no
complaint. No, these were noises which belonged to the
winter pleasures ; her spirits rose under their influence ;
and, like Mrs. Musgrove, she was feeling, though not
saying, that, after being long in the country, nothing
could be so good for her as a little quiet cheerfulness.
Anne did not share these feelings. She persisted in
a very determined, though very silent, disinclination for
Bath ; caught the first dim view of the extensive buildings,
smoking in rain, without any wish of seeing them better ;
felt their progress through the streets to be, however
disagreeable, yet too rapid ; for who would be glad to
see her when she arrived ? And looked back, with fond
regret, to the bustles of Uppercross and the seclusion of
Kellynch.
Elizabeth's last letter had communicated a piece of
news of spme interest. Mr. Elliot was in Bath. He had
called in Camden-place ; had called a second time, a third ;
had been pointedly attentive : if Elizabeth and her father
did not deceive themselves, had been taking as much
pains to seek the acquaintance, and proclaim the value
of the connection, as he had formerly taken pains to
shew neglect. This was very wonderful, if it were true ; "^
and Lady Russell was in a state of very agreeable curiosity '
and perplexity about Mr. Elliot, already recanting the
sentiment she had so lately expressed to Mary, of his
being " a man whom she had no wish to see." She had "^
c c 2 a great
( 136 )
a great wish to see him. If he really sought to reconcile
himself like a dutiful branch, he must be forgiven for
having dismembered himself from the paternal tree.
Anne was not animated to an equal pitch by the
circumstance ; but she felt that she would rather see
Mr. Elliot again than not, which was more than she could
say for many other persons in Bath.
She was put down in Camden-place ; and Lady Russell
then drove to her own lodgings, in Rivers -street.
CHAP-
( 137 )
CHAPTER III.
Sir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden-
place, a lofty, dignified situation, such as becomes a man
of consequence ; and both he and Elizabeth were settled
there, much to their satisfaction.
Anne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an
imprisonment of many months, and anxiously saying to
herself, " Oh ! when shall I leave you again ? " A degree
of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome she
received, did her good. Her father and sister were glad
to see her, for the sake of shewing her the house and
furniture, and met her with kindness. Her making
a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was noticed as
an advantage.
Mrs. Clay was very pleasant, and very smiling ; but
her courtesies and smiles were more a matter of course.
Anne had always felt that she would pretend what was
proper on her arrival ; but the complaisance of the others
was unlooked for. They were evidently in excellent
spirits, and she was soon to listen to the causes. They
had no inclination to listen to her. After laying out for
some compliments of being deeply regretted in their old
neighbourhood, which Anne could not pay, they had only
a few faint enquiries to make, before the talk must be
all their own. Uppercross excited no interest, Kellynch
very little, it was all Bath.
They had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath
more than answered their expectations in every respect.
Their house was undoubtedly the best in Camden-place ;
their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages over
all the others which they had either seen or heard of;
and the superiority was not less in the style of the fitting-
up, or the taste of the furniture. Their acquaintance
was exceedingly sought after. Every body was wanting
to
( 138 )
to visit them. They had drawn back from many intro-
ductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by
people of whom they knew nothing.
Here were funds of enjoyment ! Could Anne wonder
that her father and sister were happy ? She might not
wonder, but she must sigh that her father should feel no
degradation in his change ; should see nothing to regret
in the duties and dignity of the resident land -holder ;
should find so much to be vain of in the littlenesses of
a town ; and she must sigh, and smile, and wonder too,
as Elizabeth threw open the folding-doors, and walked
with exultation from one drawing-room to the other,
boasting of their space, at the possibility of that woman,
who had been mistress of Kellynch Hall, finding extent
to be proud of between two walls, perhaps thirty feet
asunder.
But this was not all which they had to make them
happy. They had Mr. Elliot, too. Anne had a great
deal to hear of Mr. Elliot. He was not only pardoned,
they were delighted with him. He had been in Bath
about a fortnight ; (he had passed through Bath in
November, in his way to London, when the intelligence
of Sir Walter's being settled there had of course reached
him, though only twenty-four hours in the place, but he
had not been able to avail himself of it) : but he had
now been a fortnight in Bath, and his first object, on
arriving, had been to leave his card in Camden-place,
following it up by such assiduous endeavours to meet,
and, when they did meet, by such great openness of
conduct, such readiness to apologize for the past, such
solicitude to be received as a relation again, that their
former good understanding was completely re-established.
They had not a fault to find in him. He had explained
away all the appearance of neglect on his own side. It
had originated in misapprehension entirely. He had never
had an idea of throwing himself off ; he had feared that
he was thrown off, but knew not why ; and delicacy had
kept him silent. Upon the hint of having spoken dis-
respectfully
( 139 )
respectfully or carelessly of the family, and the family
honours, he was quite indignant. He, who had ever
boasted of being an Elliot, and whose feelings, as to
connection, were only too strict to suit the unfeudal tone
of the present day ! He was astonished, indeed ! But
his character and general conduct must refute it. He
could refer Sir Walter to all who knew him ; and, cer-
tainly, the pains he had been taking on this, the first
opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the footing
of a relation and heir-presumptive, was a strong proof of
his opinions on the subject.
The circumstances of his marriage too were found to
admit of much extenuation. This was an article not
to be entered on by himself ; but a very intimate friend
of his, a Colonel Wallis, a highly respectable man, per-
fectly the gentleman, (and not an ill-looking man. Sir
Walter added) who was living in very good style in
Marlborough Buildings, and had, at his own particular
request, been admitted to their acquaintance through
Mr. Elliot, had mentioned one or two things relative to
the marriage, which made a material difference in the
discredit of it.
Colonel Wallis had known Mr. Elliot long, had been
well acquainted also with his wife, had perfectly under-
stood the whole story. She was certainly not a woman
of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich, and
excessively in love with his friend. There had been the
charm. She had sought him. Without that attraction,
not all her money would have tempted Elliot, and Sir
Walter was, moreover, assured of her having been a very
fine woman. Here was a great deal to soften the business.
A very fine woman, with a large fortune, in love with
him ! Sir Walter seemed to admit it as complete apology,
and though Elizabeth could not see the circumstance in
quite so favourable a light, she allowed it be a great
extenuation.
Mr. Elliot had called repeatedly, had dined with them
once, evidently delighted by the distinction of being
asked,
( 140 )
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 irra-
tional in the progress of the reconciliation might have no
origin but in the language of the relators. Still, however,
she had the sensation of there being something more than
immediately appeared, in Mr. Elliot's wishing, after an
interval of so many years, to be well received by them.
In a worldly view, he had nothing to gain by being on
terms with Sir Walter, nothing to risk by a state of
variance. In all probability he was already the richer of
the two, and the Kellynch estate would as surely be his
hereafter as the title. A sensible man ! and he had
looked like a very sensible man, why should it be an
object to him ? She could only offer one solution ; it
was, perhaps, for Elizabeth's sake. There might really
have been a liking formerly, though convenience and
accident had drawn him a different way, and now that
he could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay
his addresses to her. Elizabeth was certainly very hand-
some, 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 investiga-
tion of his present keener time of life was another con-
cern, 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 dis-
posed 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,
( 141 )
Lyme, but without being much attended to. '* Oh ! yes,
perhaps, it had been Mr. ElHot. They did not know.
It might be him, perhaps.'* They could not Hsten to her
description of him. They were describing him them-
selves ; 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 tlie compliment entirely, which had embar-
rassed him. He did not mean to complain, however.
Mr. Elliot was better to look at than most men, and he
had no objection to being seen with him any where."
Mr. Elliot, and his friends in Marlborough Buildings,
were talked of the whole evening. *' Colonel Wallis
had been so impatient to be introduced to them I and
Mr. Elliot so anxious that he should ! " And there was
a Mrs. Wallis, at present only known to them by descrip-
tion, as she was in daily expectation of her confinement ;
but Mr. Elliot spoke of her as " a most charming woman,
quite worthy of being known in Camden-place," and as
soon as she recovered, they were to be acquainted. Sir
Walter thought much of Mrs. Wallis ; she was said to
be an excessively pretty woman, beautiful. *' He longed
to see her. He hoped she might make some amends for
the many very plain faces he was continually passing in
the streets. The worst of Bath was, the number of its
plain women. He did not mean to say that there were
no pretty women, but the number of the plain was out
of all proportion. He had frequently observed, as he
walked, that one handsome face would be followed by
thirty, or five and thirty frights ; and once, as he had
stood in a shop in Bond-street, he had counted eighty-
seven women go by, one after another, without there
being
( 142 )
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
any thing tolerable, by the effect which a man of decent
appearance produced. He had never walked any where
arm in arm with Colonel Wallis, (who was a fine military
figure, though sandy-haired) without observing that every
woman's eye was upon him ; every woman's eye was
sure to be upon Colonel Wallis." Modest Sir Walter!
He was not allowed to escape, however. His daughter
and Mrs. Clay united in hinting that Colonel Wallis's
companion might have as good a figure as Colonel Wallis,
and certainly was not sandy-haired.
*' How is Mary looking ? " said Sir Walter, in the height
of his good humour. " The last time I saw her, she had
a red nose, but I hope that may not ha^Dpen every day."
*' Oh ! no, that must have been quite accidental. In
general she has been in very good health, and very good
looks since Michaelmas."
" If I thought it would not tempt her to go out in
sharp winds, and grow coarse, I would send her a new
hat and pelisse."
Anne was considering whether she should venture to
suggest that a gown, or a cap, would not be liable to any
such misuse, when a knock at the door suspended every
thing. " A knock at the door ! and so late ! It was ten
o'clock. Could it be Mr. Elliot ? They knew he was to
dine in Lansdown Crescent. It was possible that he might
stop in his way home, to ask them how they did. They
could think of no one else. Mrs. Clay decidedly thought
it Mr. ElHot's knock." Mrs. Clay was right. With all
the state which a butler and foot-boy could give, Mr. Elliot
was ushered into the room.
It was the same, the very same man, with no difference
but
( 143 )
but of dress. Anne drew a little back, while the others
received his compliments, and her sister his apologies for
calling at so unusual an hour, but " he could not be so
near without wishing to know that neither she nor her
friend had taken cold the day before, &c. &c." which
was all as politely done, and as politely taken as possible,
but her part must follow then. Sir Walter talked of his
youngest daughter ; " Mr. Elliot must give him leave to
present him to his youngest daughter " — (there was no
occasion for remembering Mary) and Anne, smiling and
blushing, very becomingly shewed to Mr. Elliot the pretty
features which he had by no means forgotten, and
instantly saw, with amusement at his little start of sur-
prise, that he had not been at all aware of who she was.
He looked completely astonished, but not more astonished
than pleased ; his eyes brightened, and with the most
perfect alacrity he welcomed the relationship, alluded to
the past, and entreated to be received as an acquaintance
already. He was quite as good-looking as he had appeared
at Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his
manners were so exactly what they ought to be, so
polished, so easy, so particularly agreeable, that she could
compare them in excellence to only one person's manners.
They were not the same, but they were, perhaps, equally
good.
He sat down with them, and improved their conversa-
tion very much. There could be no doubt of his being
a sensible man. Ten minutes were enough to certify that.
His tone, his expressions, his choice of subject, his knowing
where to stop, — it was all the operation of a sensible,
discerning mind. As soon as he could, he began to talk
to her of Lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting
the place, but especially wanting to speak of the circum-
stance of their happening to be guests in the same inn at
the same time, to give his own route, understand some-
thing of hers, and regret that he should have lost such
an opportunity of paying his respects to her. She gave
him a short account of her party, and business at Lyme.
His
( 144 )
His regret increased as he listened. He had spent his
whole solitary evening in the room adjoining theirs ; had
heard voices — mirth continually ; thought they must be
a most delightful set of people — longed to be with them ;
but certainly without the smallest suspicion of his pos-
sessing the shadow of a right to introduce himself. If
he had but asked who the party were ! The name of
Musgrove would have told him enough. " Well, it would
serve to cure him of an absurd practice of never asking
a question at an inn, which he had adopted, when quite
a young man, on the principle of its being very ungenteel
to be curious.
" The notions of a young man of one or two and
twenty," said he, " as to what is necessary in manners
to make him quite the thing, are more absurd, I believe,
than those of any other set of beings in the world. The
folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled
by the folly of what they have in view."
But he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne
alone ; he knew it ; he was soon diffused again among
the others, and it was only at intervals that he could
return to Lyme.
His enquiries, however, produced at length an account
of the scene she had been engaged in there, soon after
his leaving the place. Having alluded to " an accident," he
must hear the whole. When he questioned. Sir Walter and
Elizabeth began to question also ; but the difference in their
manner of doing it could not be unfelt. She could only
compare Mr. Elliot to Lady Russell, in the wish of really
comprehending what had passed, and in the degree of
concern for what she must have suffered in witnessing it;
He staid an hour with them. The elegant little clock
on the mantle-piece had struck " eleven with its silver
sounds," and the watchman was beginning to be heard
at a distance telling the same tale, before Mr. Elliot or
any 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 !
CHAP-
( 145 )
CHAPTER IV.
There was one point which Anne, on returning to her
family, would have been more thankful to ascertain, even
than Mr. Elliot's being in love with Elizabeth, which was,
her father's not being in love with Mrs. Clay ; and she
was very far from easy about it, when she had been at
home a few hours. On going down to breakfast the next
morning, she found there had just been a decent pretence
on the lady's side of meaning to leave them. She could
imagine Mrs. Clay to have said, that *' now Miss Anne
was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted ; "
for Elizabeth was replying, in a sort of whisper, " That
must not be any reason, indeed. I assure you I feel it
none. She is nothing to me, compared with you ; " and
she was in full time to hear her father say, " My dear
Madam, this must not be. As yet, you have seen nothing
of Bath. You have been here only to be useful. You
must not run away from us now. You must stay to be
acquainted with Mrs. Wallis, the beautiful Mrs. Wallis.
To your fine mind, I well know the sight of beauty is
a real gratification."
He spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne
was not surprised to see Mrs. Clay stealing a glance at
Elizabeth and herself. Her countenance, perhaps, might
express some watchfulness ; but the praise of the fine
mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister.
The lady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and
promise to stay.
In the course of the same morning, Anne and her father
chancing to be alone together, he began to compliment
her on her improved looks ; he thought her " less thin
in her person, in her cheeks ; her skin, her complexion,
greatly improved — clearer, fresher. Had she been using
any thing in particular ? " " No, nothing." " Merely
Gowland,"
vy
( 146 )
Gowland," he supposed. " No, nothing at all." '' Ha !
he was surprised at that ; " and added, " Certainly you
cannot do better than continue as you are ; you cannot
be better than well ; or I should recommend Gowland,
the constant use of Gowland, during the 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 but have heard this ! Such personal
praise might have struck her, especially as it did not
appear to Anne that the freckles were at all lessened.
But every thing must take its chance. The evil of the
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 sup-
porting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told
Anne, almost ready to exclaim, " Can this be Mr. Elliot ? "
and could not seriously picture to herself a more agreeable
or estimable man. Every thing united in him ; good
understanding, correct opinions, knowledge of the world,
and a warm heart. He had strong feelings of family-
attachment and family-honour, without pride or weak-
ness ; he lived with the liberality of a man of fortune,
without display ; he judged for himself in every thing
essential, without defying public opinion in any point of
worldly decorum. He was steady, observant, moderate,
candid ;
( m )
candid ; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness,
which fancied itself strong feeling ; and yet, with a sensi-
bility to what was amiable and lovely, and a value for
all the felicities of domestic life, which characters of I
fancied enthusiasm and violent agitation seldom really ^
possess. She was sure that he had not been happy invV
marriage. Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw
it ; but it had been no unhajDpiness to sour his mind,
nor (she began pretty soon to suspect) to prevent his
thinking of a second choice. Her satisfaction in Mr. Elliot
outweighed all the plague of Mrs. Clay.
It was now some years since Anne had begun to learn
that she and her excellent friend could sometimes think
differently ; and it did not surprise her, therefore, that
Lady Russell should see nothing suspicious or incon-
sistent, 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 widower seven
months. A little delay on his side might be very excus-
able. In fact, Anne could never see the crape round his
hat, without fearing that she was the inexcusable one, in
attributing to him such imaginations ; for though his
marriacre
( 148 )
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 under-
stand that he had looked at her with some earnestness.
She knew it well ; and she remembered another person's
look also.
They did not always think alike. His value for rank
and connexion she perceived to be greater than hers. It
was not merely complaisance, it must be a liking to the
cause, which made him enter warmly into her father
and sister's solicitudes on a subject which she thought
unworthy to excite them. The Bath paper one morning
announced the arrival of the Dowager Viscountess Dal-
rymple, and her daughter, the Honourable Miss Carteret ;
and all the comfort of No. — , Camden-place, was swept
away for many days ; for the Dalrymples (in Anne's
opinion, most unfortunately) Avere cousins of the Elliots ;
and the agony was, how to introduce themselves properly.
Anne had never seen her father and sister before in
contact with nobility, and she must acknowledge herself
disappointed. She had hoped better things from their
high ideas of their own situation in life, and was reduced
to form a wish which she had never foreseen — a wish
that they had more pride ; for " our cousins Lady
Dairy mple and Miss Carteret ; " " our cousins, the Dal-
rymples," sounded in her ears all day long.
Sir Walter had once been in company with the late
Viscount, but had never seen any of the rest of the
family, and the difficulties of the case arose from there
having been a suspension of all intercourse by letters of
ceremonv.
( 149 )
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, con-
sequently, there was but too much reason to apprehend
that the Dalrymples considered the relationship as closed.
How to have this anxious business set to rights, and be
admitted as cousins again, was the question ; and it was
a question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady
Russell nor Mr. Elliot thought unimportant. " Family
connexions were always worth preserving, good company
always worth seeking ; Lady Dalrymple had taken a
house, for three months, in Laura-place, and would be
living in style. She had been at Bath the year before,
and Lady Russell had heard her spoken of as a charming
woman. It was very desirable that the connexion should
be renewed, if it could be done, without any compromise
of propriety on the side of the Elliots."
Sir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and
at last wrote a very fine letter of ample explanation, regret
and entreaty, to his right honourable cousin. Neither
Lady Russell nor Mr. Elliot could admire the letter ; but
it did all that was wanted, in bringing three lines of
scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess. " She was very
much honoured, and should be happy in their acquain-
tance." The toils of the business were over, the sweets
began. They visited in Laura-place, they had the cards
of Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and the Hon. Miss
Caxteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most
visible ; and " Our cousins in Laura-place," — " Our
cousins. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret," were talked
of to every body.
Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her
daughter even .been very agreeable, she would still have
been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they
"^•5 D d were
( 150 )
were nothing. There was no superiority of manner,
accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had
acquired the name of " a charming woman," because she
had a smile and a civil answer for every body. Miss
Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awk-
ward, that she Avould never have been tolerated in
Camden-place but for her birth. >
Lady Russell confessed that she had expected some-
thing better ; but yet " it was an acquaintance worth
having," and when Anne ventured to speak her opinion
of them to Mr. Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing
in themselves, but still maintained that as a family con-
nexion, 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 educa-
tion is not very nice. Birth and good manners are
essential ; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous
thing in good company, on the contrary, it will do very
well. My cousin, Anne, shakes her head. She is not
satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin, (sitting
down by her) you have a better right to be fastidious
than almost any other woman I know ; but will it
answer ? Will it make you happy ? Will it not be wiser
to accept the society of these good ladies in Laura-place,
and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as
possible ? You may depend upon it, that they will move
in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank,
your being known to be related to them will have its use
in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that
degree of consideration which we must all wish for."
" Yes," sighed Anne, " we shall, indeed, be known to
be related to them ! "■ — then recollecting herself, and not
wishing
( 151 }
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 acknow-
ledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect
indifference to them."
** Pardon me, my dear cousin, you are unjust to your
own claims. In London, perhaps, in your present quiet
style of living, it might be as you say ; but in Bath,
Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth
knowing, always acceptable as acquaintance."
" Well," said Anne, " I certainly am proyd, 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 estab-
lished here with all the credit and dignity which ought
to belong to Sir W^alter Elliot. You talk of being proud,
I am called proud I know, and I shall not wish to believe
myself otherwise, for our pride, if investigated, would
have the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind
may seem a little different. In one point, I am sure, my
dear cousin, (he continued, speaking lower, though there
was no one else in the room) in one point, I am sure, we
must feel alike. We must feel that every addition to
your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may
be of use in diverting his thoughts from those who are
beneath him."
He looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs. Clay
had been lately occupying, a sufficient explanation of
what he particularly meant ; and though Anne could not
believe in their having the same sort of pride, she was
pleased with him for not liking Mrs. Clay ; and her con-
science admitted that his wishing to promote her father's
getting great acquaintance, was more than excusable in
the view of defeating her.
Dd2 CHAP-
( 152 )
CHAPTER V.
While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously-
pushing their good fortune in Laura-place, Anne was
renewing an acquaintance of a very different description.
She had called on her former governess, and had heard
from her 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 shewn her kindness in one of those
periods of her life when it had been most valuable. Anne
had gone unhappy to school, grieving for the loss of
a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling her separa-
tion 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 her-
self, 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 in-
difference.
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 for-
ward 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 rheu-
matic 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, li^dng in a very humble way, unable even to afford
herself
( 153 )
herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost
exchided 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 con-
sulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her
sentiments, and was most happy to convey her as near
to Mrs. Smith's lodgings in Westgate-buildings, as Anne
chose to be taken.
The visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established,
their interest in each other more than re-kindled. The
first ten minutes had its awkwardness and its emotion.
Twelve years were gone since they had parted, and each
presented a somewhat different person from what the
other had imagined. Twelve years had changed Anne
from the blooming, silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the
. elegant little woman of seven and twenty, with every
beauty excepting bloom, and with manners as consciously
right as they were invariably gentle ; and twelve years
had transformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamil-
ton, in all the glow of health and confidence of superiority,
into a poor, infirm, helpless widow, receiving the visit of
her former protegee as a favour ; but all that was uncom-
fortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left
only the interesting charm of remembering former par-
tialities 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.
( 154 )
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 Hfe and
happiness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement
of perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest sup-
portable. Her accommodations were limited to a noisy
parlour, and a dark bed-room behind, w4th 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 languor and
depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment. How
could it be ? — She watched — observed — reflected — and
finally determined that this was not a case of fortitude
or of resignation only. — A submissive spirit might be
patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution,
but here was something more ; here was that elasticity
of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of
turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employ-
ment which carried her out of herself, which was from
Nature alone. It was the choicest gift of Heaven ; and
Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which,
by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counter-
balance almost every other want.
There had been a time, Mrs. Smith told her, when her
spirits had nearly failed. She could not call herself an
invalid now, compared with her state on first reaching
Bath. Then, she had indeed been a pitiable object — for
she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken
possession of her lodgings, before she was again confined
to her bed, and suffering under severe and constant pain ;
and all this among strangers — with the absolute necessity
of having a regular nurse, and finances at that moment
particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense.
She had weathered it however, and could truly say that
it had done her good. It had increased her comforts by
making her feel herself to be in good hands. She had
seen
( 155 )
seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or dis-
interested attachment any where, but her illness had
proved to her that her landlady had a character to pre-
serve, and would not use her ill ; and she had been
particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of her
landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always
a home in that house when unemployed, chanced to be
at liberty just in time to attend her. — " And she," said
Mrs. Smith, " besides nursing me most admirably, has
really proved an invaluable acquaintance. — ^As soon as
I could use my hands, she taught me to knit, which has
been a great amusement ; and she put me in the way
of making these little thread-cases, pin-cushions and card-
racks, which you always find rhe so busy about, and which
supply me with the means of doing a little good to one
or two very poor families in this neighbourhood. She has
a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among
those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my
merchandize. She always takes the right time for apply-
ing. Every body's heart is open, you know, when they
have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering
the blessing of health, and nurse Rooke thoroughly under-
stands when to speak. She is a shrewd, intelligent,
sensible woman. Hers is a line for seeing human nature ;
and she has a fund of good sense and observation which,
as a companion, make her infinitely superior to thousands
of those who having only received " the best education
in the world," know nothing worth attending to. Call it
gossip if you will ; but when nurse Rooke has half an
hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have some-
thing to relate that is entertaining and profitable, some-
thing that makes one know one's species better. One
likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the
newest modes of being trifling and silly. To me, who live
so much alone, her conversation I assure you is a treat."
Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied,
" I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great
opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well
worth
( 156 )
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 con-
flicts 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 j>assing emotion however with Mrs. Smith, she shook
it off, and soon added in a different tone,
" I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs. Rooke
is in at present, will furnish much either to interest or
edify me. — ^She is only nursing Mrs. Wallis of Marlborough-
buildings — a mere j^retty, silly, expensive, fashionable
woman, I believe — and of course Avill have nothing to
report but of lace and finery. — I mean to make my profit
of Mrs. Wallis, however. She has plenty of money, and
I intend she shall buy all the high-priced things I have
in hand now."
Anne had called several times on her friend, before the
existence of such a person was known in Camden-place.
At last, it became necessary to speak of her. — Sir Walter,
Elizabeth
( 157 )
Elizabeth and Mrs. Clay returned one morning from
Laura-place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dal-
rymple 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 relation-
ship which had been so pressed on her, — and she declined
on her own account with great alacrity — " She was
engaged to spend the evening with an old schoolfellow."
They were not much interested in any thing relative to
Anne, but still there were questions enough asked, to
make it understood what this old schoolfellow was ; and
Elizabeth was disdainful, and Sir Walter severe.
'' Westgate-buildings ! " said he ; " and who is Miss
Anne Elliot to be visiting in Westgate-buildings ? — A
Mrs. Smith. A widow Mrs. Smith, — and who was her
husband ? One of the five thousand Mr. Smiths whose
names are to be met with every where. And what is her
attraction ? Th^t she is old and sickly. — Upon my word,
Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most extraordinary taste !
Every thing that revolts other people, low companyT^
paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting C
to you. But surely, you may put off this old lady till r
to-morrow. She is not so near her end, I presume, but \
that she may hope to see another day. WTiat is her \
age? Forty?" _J
" No, Sir, she is not one and thirty ; but I do not
think I can put off my engagement, because it is the only
evening for some time which will at once suit her and
myself. — She goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and for
the rest of the week you know we are engaged."
" But what does Lady Russell think of this acquain-
tance ? " 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
( 158 )
by the appearance of a carriage drawn up near its pave-
ment ! " observed Sir Walter. — " Sir Henry Russell's
widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms ;
but still, it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well
known to convey a Miss Elliot. — A widow Mrs. Smith,
lodging in Westgate-buildings ! — A poor widow, barely
able to live, between thirty and forty — a mere Mrs. Smith,
an every day Mrs. Smith, of all people and all names in
the world, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot,
and to be preferred by her, to her own family connections
among the nobility of England and Ireland ! Mrs. Smith,
such a name ! "
Mrs. Clay, who had been present while all this passed,
now thought it advisable to leave the room, and Anne
could have said much and did long to say a little, in
defence of her friend's not very dissimilar claims to theirs,
but her sense of personal respect to her father prevented
her. She made no reply. She left it to himself to recollect,
that Mrs. Smith was not the only widow in Bath between
thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no sirname
of dignity.
Anne kept her appointment ; the others kept theirs,
and of course she heard the next morning that they had
had a delightful evening. — She had been the only one of
the set absent ; for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not
only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but
had actually been happy to be employed by her in collect-
ing 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 W^allis early, and Lady Russell
had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order
to wait on her. Anne had the whole history of all that
such an evening could supply, from Lady Russell. To
her, its greatest interest must be, in having been very
much talked of between her friend and Mr. Elliot, in
having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time
honoured for staying away in such a cause. — ^Her kind,
compassionate visits to this old schoolfellow, sick and
reduced,
( 159 )
reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr. ElUot. He
thought her a most extraordinaiy young woman ; in her
temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence.
He could meet even Lady Russell in a discussion of her
merits ; and Anne could not be given to understand so
much by her friend, could not know herself to be so
highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those
agreeable sensations which her friend meant to create.
Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion
of Mr. Elliot. She was as much convinced of his meaning
to gain Anne in time, as of his deserving her ; and was
beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would
free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood,
and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers
of pleasing. She would not speak to Anne with half the
certainty she felt on the subject, she would venture on
little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of
a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness
of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real,
and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent
exclamations. She only smiled, blushed, and gently shook
her head.
" I am no match-maker, as you well know," said Lady
Russell, " being much too well aware of the uncertainty
of all human events and calculations. I only mean that
if Mr. EUiot should some time hence pay his addresses
to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him,
I think there would be every possibility of your being
happy together. A most suitable connection every body
must consider it — but I think it might be a very happy
one."
" Mr. Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in
many respects I think highly of him," said Anne ; " but
we should not suit."
Lady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder,
" I own that to be able to regard you as the future
mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Elliot — to look
forward and see you occupying your dear mother's place,
succeeding
( 160 )
succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as
well as to all her virtues, would be the highest possible
gratification to me. — You are your mother's self in coun-
tenance 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 employ-
ment, try to subdue the feelings this picture excited. For
a few moments her imagination and her heart were
bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had
been ; of having the precious name of " Lady Elliot "
first revived in herself ; of being restored to Kellynch,
calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm
which she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell
said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its
own operation ; and believing that, could Mr. Elliot at
that moment with propriety have spoken for himself! —
She believed, in short, what Anne did not believe. The
same image of Mr. Elliot speaking for himself, brought
Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch and
of " Lady Elliot " all faded away. She never could accept
him. And it was not only that her feelings were still
adverse to any man save one ; her judgment, on a serious
consideration of the possibilities of such a case, was
against Mr. Elliot.
^ Though they had now been acquainted a month, she
could not be satisfied that she really knew his character.
That he was a sensible man, an agreeable man, — that he
talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to judge
properly and as a man of principle, — this was all clear
enough. He certainly knew what was right, nor could
she fix on any one article of moral duty evidently trans-
gressed ; but yet she would have been afraid to answer
^^or his conduct. She distrusted the past, if not the
present.
( 161 )
present. The names which occasionally dropt of former
associates, the allusions to former practices and pursuits,
suggested suspicions not favourable of what he had been.
She saw that there had been bad habits ; that Sunday-
traveUing had been a common thing ; that there had
been a period of his life (and probably not a short one)
when he had been, at least, careless on all serious matters ;
and, though he might now think very differently, who
could answer for the true sentiments of a clever, cautious
man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair character ?
How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly
cleansed ?
Mr. Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, — but he was
not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any
warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of
others. This, to Anne, was a decided imperfection. Her
early impressions were incurable. She prized the frank,
the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others.
Warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her still. She felt
that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity
of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or
a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind /
never varied, whose tongue never slipped.
Mr. Elliot was too generally agreeable. Various as
were the tempers in her father's house, he pleased them
all. He endured too well, — stood too well with every-
body. He had spoken to her with some degree of open-
ness 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.
CHAP-
( 162 )
CHAPTER VI.
It was the beginning of February ; and Anne, having
been a month in Bath, was growing very eager for news
from Uppercross and Lyme. She wanted to hear much
more than Mary communicated. It was three weeks since
she had heard at all. She only knew that Henrietta was
at home again ; and that Louisa, though considered to
be recovering fast, was still at Lyme ; and she was
thinking of them all very intently one evening, when
a thicker letter than usual from Mary was delivered to
her, and, to quicken the pleasure and surprise, with
Admiral and Mrs. Croft's compliments.
The Crofts must be in Bath ! A circumstance to
interest her. They were people whom her heart turned
to very naturally.
"What is this?" cried Sir Walter. "The Crofts
arrived in Bath ? The Crofts who rent Kellynch ? What
have they brought you ? "
" A letter from Uppercross Cottage, Sir."
" Oh ! those letters are convenient passports. They
secure an introduction. I should have visited Admiral
Croft, however, at any rate. I know what is due to my
tenant."
Anne could listen no longer ; she could not even have
told how the poor Admiral's complexion escaped ; her
letter engrossed her. It had been begun several days
back.
" MY DEAR ANNE,
Februarj' 1st,
" I make no apology for my silence, because I know
"how little people think of letters in such a place as
" Bath. You must be a great deal too happy to care for
" Uppercross, which, as you well know, a^ords little to
" write about. We have had a very dull Christmas ;
"Mr.
( 163 )
" Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove have not had one dinner-party
*' all the holidays. I do not reckon the Hayters as any
" body. The holidays, however, are over at last : I believe
" no children ever had such long ones. I am sure I had
*' not. The house was cleared yesterday, except of the
" little Harvilles ; but you will be surprised to hear that
" they have never gone home. Mrs. Harville must be an
" odd mother to part with them so long. I do not under-
" stand 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 grand-children. What
" dreadful weather we have had ! It may not be felt in
" Bath, mth your nice pavements ; but in the country
" it is of some consequence. I have not had a creature
" call on me since the second week in January, except
" Charles Hayter, who has been calling much oftener than
" was welcome. Between ourselves, I think it a great
" pity Henrietta did not remain at Lyme as long as
" Louisa ; it would have kept her a little out of his way.
" The carriage is gone to-day, to bring Louisa and the
" Harvilles to-morrow. We are not asked to dine with
*' them, however, till the day after, Mrs. Musgrove is so
" afraid of her being fatigued by the journey, which is
" not very likely, considering the care that will be taken
*' of her ; and it would be much more convenient to me
" to dine there to-morrow. I am glad you find Mr. Elliot
" so agreeable, and wish I could be acquainted with him
" too ; but I have my usual luck, I am always out of
" the way when any thing desirable is going on ; always
" the last of my family to be noticed. What an immense
*' time Mrs. Clay has been staying with Elizabeth ! Does
" she never mean to go away ? But perhaps if she were
" to leave the room vacant we might not be invited.
" Let me know what you think of this. I do not expect
" my children to be asked, you know. I can leave them
" at the Great House very well, for a month or six weeks.
" I have this moment heard that the Crofts are going to
" Bath almost immediately ; they think the admiral
" gouty.
( 164 )
" gouty. Charles heard it quite by chance : they have
" not had the civiUty to give me any notice, or offer to
" take any thing. I do not think they improve at all as
" neighbours. We see nothing of them, and this is really
" an instance of gross inattention. Charles joins me in
" love, and every thing proper. Yours, affectionately,
" MARY M ."
" I am sorry to say that I am very far from well ; and
*' Jemima has just told me that the butcher says there
" is a bad sore-throat very much about. I dare say
" I shall catch it ; and my sore-throats, you know, are
" always worse than anybody's."
So ended the first part, which had been afterwards put
into an envelop, containing nearly as much more.
" I kept my letter open, that I might send you word
" how Louisa bore her journey, and now I am extremely
*' glad I did, having a great deal to add. In the first
" place, I had a note from Mrs. Croft yesterday, offering
*' to convey any thing to you ; a very kind, friendly note
" indeed, addressed to me, just as it ought ; I shall there-
" fore 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 neighbour-
*' hood 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 Harvilles came
" on Tuesday very safely, and in the evening we went
" to ask her how she did, when we were rather surprised
" not to find Captain Benwick of the party, for he had
*' been invited as well as the Harvilles ; and what do you
" think was the reason ? Neither more nor less than his
" being in love with Louisa, and not choosing to venture
" to Uppercross till he had had an answer from Mr. Mus-
" grove ; for it was all settled between him and her before
" she came away, and he had written to her father by
" Captain Harville. True, upon my honour. Are not
"you
( 165 )
*' you astonished ? I shall be surprised at least if you
" ever received a hint of it, for I never did. Mrs. Musgrove
" protests solemnly that she knew nothing of the matter.
" We are all very well pleased, however ; for though it
" is not equal to her marrying Captain Wentworth, it is
" infinitely better than Charles Hayter ; and Mr. Mus-
*' grove has written his consent, and Captain Benwick is
" expected to-day. Mrs. Harville says her husband feels
" a good deal on his poor sister's account ; but, however,
" Louisa is a great favourite with both. Indeed Mrs. Har-
" ville and I quite agree that we love her the better for
" having nursed her. Charles wonders what Captain
" Wentworth will say ; but if you remember, I never
" thought him attached to Louisa ; I never could see
" any thing of it. And this is the end, you see, of Captain
'' Benwick's being supposed to be an admirer of yours.
" How Charles could take such a thing into his head was
" always incomprehensible to me. I hope he will be more
" agreeable now. Certainly not a great match for Louisa
*' Musgrove ; but a million times better than marrying
*' among the Hayters."
Mary need not have feared her sister's being in any
degree prepared for the news. She had never in her life
been more astonished. Captain Benwick and Louisa
Musgrove ! It was almost too wonderful for belief ; and
it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in
the room, preserve an air of calmness, and answer the
common questions of the moment. Happily for her, they
were not many. Sir Walter wanted to know whether the
Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they were
likely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might
suit Miss Elliot and himself to visit in ; but had little
curiosity beyond.
" How is Mary ? " said EHzabeth ; 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."
i'8i-5 E e " Gout
( 166 )
." Gout and decrepitude ! " said Sir Walter. " Poor old
gentleman."
" Have they any acquaintance here ? " asked Elizabeth.
" I do not know ; but I can hardly suppose that, at
Admiral Croft's time of life, and in his profession, he
should not have many acquaintance in such a place as
this."
" I suspect," said Sir Walter coolly, " that Admiral
Croft will be best known in Bath as the renter of Kellynch-
hall. Elizabeth, may we venture to present him and his
wife in Laura-place ? "
" Oh ! no, I think not. Situated as we are with Lady
Dalrymple, cousins, we ought to be very careful not to
embarrass her with acquaintance she might not approve.
If we were not related, it would not signify ; but as
cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of
ours. We had better leave the Crofts to find their own
level. There are several 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 enquiry after Mrs. Charles
Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was at liberty.
In her own room she tried to comprehend it. Well
might Charles wonder how Captain Wentworth would
feel ! Perhaps he had quitted the field, had given Louisa
up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her.
She could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or
any thing akin to ill-usage between him and his friend.
She could not endure that such a friendship as theirs
should be severed unfairly.
Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove ! The high-
spirited, joyous, talking Louisa Musgrove, and the de-
jected, thinking, feeling, reading Captain Benwick, seemed
each of them every thing that would not suit the other.
Their minds most dissimilar ! Where could have been
the attraction ? The answer soon presented itself. It
had
( 167 )
had been in situation. They had been thrown together
several weeks ; they had been Uving 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 incon-
solable. That was a point which Anne had not been able
to avoid suspecting before ; and instead of drawing the
same conclusion as Mary, from the present course of
events, they served only to confirm the idea of his having
felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself. She did
not mean, however, to derive much more from it to
gratify her vanity, than Mary might have allowed. She ^
was persuaded that any tolerably pleasing young woman
who had listened and seemed to feel for him, would have -
received the same compliment. He had an affectionate
heart. He must love somebody.
She saw no reason against their being happy. Louisa
had fine naval fervour to begin with, and they would
soon grow more alike. He would gain cheerfulness, and
she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott and Lord
Byron ; nay, that was probably learnt already ; of course
they had fallen in love over poetry. The idea of Louisa
Musgrove turned into a person of literary taste, and
sentimental reflection, was amusing, but she had no doubt
of its being so. The day at Lyme, the fall from the Cobb,
might influence her health, her nerves, her courage, her
character to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it
appeared to have influenced her fate. \
The conclusion of the whole was, that if the woman \
who had been sensible of Captain Wentworth's merits j
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
E e 2 was
( 168 )
was ashamed to investigate. They were too much Hke
joy, senseless joy !
She longed to see the Crofts, but when the meeting
took place, it was evident that no rumour of the news
had yet reached them. The visit of ceremony was paid
and returned, and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned, and
Captain Benwick too, without even half a smile.
The Crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in 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 Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they
wished for, and considered their intercourse with the
Elliots as a mere matter of form, and not in the least
likely to afford them any pleasure. They brought with
them their country habit of being almost always together.
He was ordered to walk, to keep off the gout, and
Mrs. Croft seemed to go shares with him in every thing,
and to walk for her life, to do him good. Anne saw
them 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 observe their eagerness of conversation when
occasionally forming into a little knot of the na\y,
Mrs. Croft looking as intelligent and keen as any of the
officers around her.
Anne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be
often walking herself, but it so happened that one morning,
about a week or ten days after the Crofts' 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 ;
( 169 )
place ; and in walking up Milsom-street, she had the good
fortune to meet with the Admiral. He was standing by
himself, at a printshop window, with his hands behind
him, in earnest contemplation of some print, and she not
only might have passed him unseen, but was obHged to
touch as well as address him before she could catch his
notice. When he did perceive and acknowledge her, how-
ever, it was done with all his usual frankness and good
humour. " Ha ! is it you ? Thank you, thank you.
This is treating me Hke 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 any
body would venture their lives in such a shapeless old
cockleshell as that. And yet, here are two gentlemen
stuck up in it mightily at their ease, and looking about
them at the rocks and mountains, as if they were not to
be upset the next moment, which they certainly must be.
I wonder where that boat was built ! " (laughing heartily)
" I would not venture over a horsepond in it. Well,'*
(turning away) " now, where are you bound ? Can I go
any where for you, or with you ? Can I be 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 Brigden ; I shall only say, " How d'ye do," as
we pass, however. I shall not stop. " How d'ye do."
Brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife.
She,
( 170 )
She, poor soul, is tied by the leg. She has a blister on
one of her heels, as large as a three shilling piece. If you
look across the street, you will see Admiral Brand coming
down and his brother. Shabby fellows, both of them !
I am glad they are not on this side of the way. Sophy
cannot bear them. They played me a pitiful trick once —
got away some of my best men. I will tell you the whole
story another time. There comes old Sir Archibald Drew
and his grandson. Look, he sees us ; he kisses his hand
to you ; he takes you for my wife. Ah ! the peace has
come too soon for that younker. Poor old Sir Archibald !
How do you like Bath, Miss Elliot ? It suits us very
well. We are always meeting with some old friend or
other ; the streets full of them every morning ; sure to
have plenty of chat ; and then we get away from them
all, and shut ourselves into our lodgings, and draw in our
chairs, and are as snug as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or
as we used to be even at North Yarmouth and Deal. We
do not like our lodgings here the worse, I can tell you,
for putting us in mind of those we first had at North
Yarmouth. The wind blows through one of the cupboards
just in the same way."
When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to
press again for what he had to communicate. She had
hoped, when clear of Milsom-street, to have her curiosity
gratified ; but she was still obliged to wait, for the
Admiral had made up his mind not to begin, till they
had gained the greater space and quiet of Belmont, and
as she was not really Mrs. Croft, she must let him have
his own way. As soon as they w^re 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
( 171 )
soon as she really did ; but now she could safely suggest
the name of " Louisa."
" Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name.
I wish young ladies had not such a number of fine christian
names. I should never be out, if they were all Sophys,
or something of that sort. Well, this Miss Louisa, we all
thought, you know, was to marry Frederick. He was
courting her week after week. The only wonder was,
what they could be waiting for, till the business at Lyme
came ; then, indeed, it was clear enough that they must
wait till her brain was set to right. But even then, there
was something odd in their way of going on. Instead of
staying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he
went off to see Edward. When we came back from
Minehead, he was gone down to Edward's, and there he
has been ever since. W^e have seen nothing of him since
November. Even Sophy could not understand it. But
now, the matter has taken the strangest turn of all ; for
this young lady, this same Miss Musgrove, instead of
being to marry Frederick, is to marry James Benwick.
You know James Benwick."
** A little, I am a little acquainted with Captain
Benwick."
" Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they
are married already, for I do not know what they should
wait for."
" I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young
man," said Anne, " and I understand that he bears an
excellent character."
" Oh ! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against
James Benmck. He is only a commander, it is true,
made last summer, and these are bad times for getting
on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An
excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you, a very active,
zealous officer too, which is more than you would think
for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do
him justice."
*' Indeed you are mistaken there, sir. I should never
( 172 )
augur want of spirit from Captain Benwick's manners.
I thought them particularly pleasing, and I will answer
for it they would generally please."
*' Well, well, ladies are the best judges ; but James
Benwick is rather too piano for me, and though very
likely it is all our partiality, Sophy and I cannot help
thinking Frederick's manners better than his. There is
something about Frederick more to our taste."
Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the
too-common idea of spirit and gentleness being incom-
patible with each other, not at all to represent Captain
Benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly
be, and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to
say, " I was not entering into any comparison of the two
friends," but the Admiral interrupted her with,
" And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit
of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister
had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of
it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written
upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at
Uppercross."
This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist ;
she said, therefore, " I hope, Admiral, I hope there is
nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to
make you and Mrs. Croft particularly uneasy. It did
certainly seem, last autumn, as if there were an attach-
ment 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 com-
plain ; 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
( 173 )
make you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend,
which might appear, you know, without its being abso-
lutely said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship
as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should
be destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of
this sort."
" Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at
all of that nature in the letter. He does not give the
least fling at Benwick ; does not so much as say, " I
wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for wondering
at it." No, you would not guess, from his way of writing,
that he had ever thought of this Miss (what's her name ?)
for himself. He very handsomely hopes they will be
happy together, and there is nothing very unforgiving in
that, I think."
Anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the
Admiral meant to convey, but it would have been useless
to press the enquiry farther. She, therefore, satisfied
herself with common-place remarks, or quiet attention,
and the Admiral had it all his own way.
" Poor Frederick ! " said he at last. " Now he must
begin all over again with somebody else. I think we
must get him to Bath. Sophy must write, and beg him
to come to Bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am
sure. It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again,
for that other Miss Musgrove, I find, is bespoke by her
cousin, the young parson. Do not you think, Miss Elliot,
we had better try to get him to Bath ? "
CHAP-
( n4 )
CHAPTER VII.
While Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne,
and expressing his wish of getting Captain Wentworth to
Bath, Captain Wentworth was already on his way thither.
Before Mrs. Croft had written, he was arrived ; and the
very next time Anne walked out, she saw him.
Mr. Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs. Clay.
They were in Milsom-street. It began to rain, not much,
but enough to make shelter desirable for women, and
quite enough to make it very desirable for Miss Elliot
to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady
Dalrymple's carriage, which was seen waiting at a little
distance; she, Anne, and Mrs. Clay, therefore, turned
into Molland's, while Mr. Elliot stepped to Lady Dal-
rymple, to request her assistance. He soon joined them
again, successful, of course ; Lady Dalrymple would be
most happy to take them home, and would call for them
in a few minutes.
Her ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not
hold more than four with any comfort. Miss Carteret
was with her mother ; consequently it was not reasonable
to expect accommodation for all the three Camden-place
ladies. There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot. Who-
ever 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 dis-
cussed between them with a generosity so polite and so
determined, that the others were obliged to settle it for
them ;
( 175 )
them ; Miss Elliot maintaining that Mrs. Clay had a little
cold already, and Mr. Elliot deciding on appeal, that his
cousin Anne's boots were rather the thickest.
It was fixed accordingly that Mrs. Clay should be of
the party in the carriage ; and they had just reached
this point when Anne, as she sat near the window,
descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain Went-
worth 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, be-
wildering, first effects of strong surprise were over with her.
Still, however, she had enough to feel ! It was agitation,
pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery.
He spoke to her, and then turned away. The character
of his manner was embarrassment. She could not have
I called
( 176 )
called it either cold or friendly, or any thing so certainly
as embarrassed.
After a short interval, however, he came towards her
and spoke again. Mutual enquiries on common subjects
passed ; neither of them, probably, much the wiser for
what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible of his
being less at ease than formerly. They had, by dint of
being so very much together, got to speak to each other
with a considerable portion of apparent indifference and
calmness ; but he could not do it now. Time had changed
him, or Louisa had changed him. There was conscious-
ness of some sort or other. He looked very well, not as
if he had been suffering in health or spirits, and he talked
of Uppercross, of the Musgroves, nay, even of Louisa, and
had even a momentary look of his own arch significance
as he named her ; but yet it was Captain Wentworth not
comfortable, not easy, not able to feign that he was.
It did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that
Elizabeth would not know him. She saw that he saw
Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw him, that there was com-
plete internal recognition on each side ; she was convinced
that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance,
expecting it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister
turn away with unalterable coldness.
Lady Dalrymple's carriage, for which Miss Elliot was
growing very impatient, now drew up ; the servant came
in to announce it. It was beginning to rain again, and
altogether there was a delay, and a bustle, and a talking,
which must make all the little crowd in the shop under-
stand that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss
Elliot. At last Miss Elliot and her friend, unattended
but by the servant, (for there was no cousin returned)
were walking off ; and Captain Wentworth, watching
them, turned again to Anne, and by manner, rather than
words, was offering his services to her.
"I am much obliged to you," was her answer, " but
I am not going with them. The carriage would not
accommodate so many. I walk. I prefer walking."'
" But
( 177 )
*' But it rains."
" Oh ! very little. Nothing that I regard."
After a moment's pause he said, " Though I came only
yesterday, I have equipped myself properly for Bath
already, you see," (pointing to a new umbrella) " I wish
you would make use of it, if you are determined to walk ;
though, I think, it would be more prudent to let me get
you a chair."
She was very much obliged to him, but declined it all,
repeating her conviction, that the rain would come to
nothing at present, and adding, " I am only waiting for
Mr. Elliot. He will be here in a moment, I am sure."
She had hardly spoken the words, when Mr. Elliot
walked in. Captain Wentworth recollected him perfectly.
There was no difference between him and the man who
had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as she
passed, except in the air and look and manner of the
privileged relation and friend. He came in with eager-
ness, appeared to see and think only of her, apologised
for his stay, was grieved to have kept her waiting, and
anxious to get her away without further loss of time,
and before the rain increased ; and in another moment
they walked off together, her arm under his, a gentle and
embarrassed glance, and a " good morning to you," being
all that she had time for, as she passed away.
As soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain
Wentworth's party began talking of them.
" Mr. Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy ? "
" Oh ! no, that is clear enough. One can guess what
will happen there. He is always with them ; half lives
in the family, I believe. What a very good-looking
man ! "
" Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once
at the Wallises, says he is the most agreeable man she
ever was in company with."
" She is pretty, I think ; Anne Elliot ; very pretty,
when one comes to look at her. It is not the fashion to
gay so, but I confess I admire her more than her sister."
"Oh!
( ns )
"Oh! so do I."
" And so do I. No comparison. But the men are all
wild after Miss Elliot. Anne is too delicate for them."
Anne would have been particularly obliged to her
cousin, if he would have walked by her side all the way
to Camden-place, without saying a word. She had never
found it so difficult to listen to him, though nothing could
exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects
were principally such as were wont to be always interesting
— praise, warm, just, and discriminating, of Lady Russell,
and insinuations highly rational against Mrs. Clay. But
just now she could think only of Captain Wentworth.
She could not understand his present feelings, whether
he were really suffering much from disappointment or
not ; and till that point were settled, she could not be
quite herself.
She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time ; but
alas ! alas ! she must confess to herself that she was not
^ wise yet.
V Another circumstance very essential for her to know,
was how long he meant to be in Bath ; he had not
mentioned it, or she could not recollect it. He might be
only passing through. But it was more probable that he
should be come to stay. In that case, so liable as every
body was to meet every body in Bath, Lady Russell
would in all likelihood see him somewhere. — Would she
recollect him ? How would it all be ?
She had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that
Louisa Musgrove was to marry Captain Benwick. It had
cost her something to encounter Lady Russell's surprise ;
and now, if she were by any chance to be thrown into
company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect know-
ledge 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
Pulteney-street, she distinguished him on the right hand
pavement
( 179 )
pavement at such a distance as to have him in view the
greater part of the street. There were many other men
about him, many groups walking the same way, but there
was no mistaking him. She looked instinctively at Lady
Russell ; but not from any mad idea of her recognising
him so soon as she did herself. No, it was not to be sup-
posed 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 eye so long ; but I was looking after some window-
curtains, which Lady Alicia and Mrs. Frankland were
telling me of last night. They described the drawing-
room window-curtains of one of the houses on this side
of the way, and this part of the street, as being the hand-
somest and best hung of any in Bath, but could not
recollect the exact number, and I have been trying to
find out which it could be ; but I confess I can see no
curtains hereabouts that answer their description."
Anne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and dis-
dain, either at her friend or herself.— rThe part which
provoked her most, was that in all this waste of foresight
and caution, she should have lost the right moment for
seeing whether he saw them.
A day or two passed without producing any thing. —
The
( 180 )
The theatre or the rooms, where he was most Ukely to
be, were not fashionable enough for the ElUots, whose
evening amusements were solely in the elegant stupidity
of private parties, ia which they were getting more and
more engaged ; and Anne, wearied of such a state of
stagnation, sick of knowing nothing, and fancying herself
stronger because her strength was not tried, was quite
impatient for the concert evening. It was a concert for
the benefit of a person patronised by Lady Dalrymple.
Of course they must attend. It was really expected to
be a good one, and Captain Wentworth was very fond
of music. If she could only have a few minutes con-
versation with him again, she fancied she should be
satisfied ; and as to the power of addressing him she felt
all over courage if the opportunity occurred. Elizabeth
had turned from him. Lady Russell overlooked him ; her
nerves were strengthened by these circumstances ; she
felt that she owed him attention.
She had once partly promised Mrs. Smith to spend the
evening with her ; but in a short hurried call she excused
herself and put it off, with the more decided promise of
a longer visit on the morrow. Mrs. Smith gave a most
good-humoured acquiescence.
" By all means," said she ; " only tell me all about it,
when you do come. Who is your party ? "
Anne named them all. Mrs. Smith made no reply ;
but when she was leaving her, said, and with an expres-
sion half serious, half arch, " Well, I heartily wish your
concert may answer ; and do not fail me to-morrow if
you can come ; for I begin to have a foreboding that
I may not have many more visits from you."
Anne was startled and confused, but after standing in
a moment's suspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be
obUged, to hurry away.
CHAP-
( 181 )
CHAPTER VIII.
Sir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs. Clay, were
the earUest of all their party, at the rooms in the evening ;
and as Lady Dalrymple must be waited for, they took
their station by one of the fires in the octagon room. But
hardly were they so settled, when the door opened again,
and Captain Wentworth walked in alone. Anne was the
nearest to him, and making yet a little advance, she
instantly spoke. He was preparing only to bow and pass
on, but her gentle " How do you do ? " brought him out
of the straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries
in return, in spite of the formidable father and sister in
the back ground. Their being in the back ground was
a support to Anne ; she knew nothing of their looks, and
felt equal to 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 compre-
hended that her father had judged so well as to give him
that simple acknowledgment of acquaintance, and she
was just in time by a side glance to see a slight curtsey
from Elizabeth herself. This, though late and reluctant
and ungracious, was yet better than nothing, and her
spirits improved.
After talking however of the weather and Bath and
the concert, their conversation began to flag, and so little
was said at last, that she was expecting him to go every
moment ; but he did not ; he seemed in no hurry to
leave her ; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little
smile, a little glow, he said,
" I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme. I am
afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the
more from its not overpowering you at the time."
1781.5 Ff She
( 182 )
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 remem-
brance were still too painful ; but in a moment half
smiling again, added, " The day has produced some effects
however — has had some consequences which must be con-
sidered 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 Mus-
groves are behaving like themselves, most honourably
and kindly, only anxious with true parental hearts to
promote their daughter's comfort. All this is much, very
much in favour of their happiness ; more than perhaps — '*
He stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur,
and to give him some taste of that emotion which was
reddening Anne's cheeks and fixing her eyes on the
ground. — After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded
thus,
" I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too
great a disparity, and in a point no less essential than
mind. — I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable,
sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding ;
but Benwick is something more. He is a clever man,
a reading man — and I confess that I do consider his
attaching himself to her, with some surprise. Had it
been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her,
because he believed her to be preferring him, it would
have been another thing. But I have no reason to sup-
pose
( 183 )
pose it so. It seems, on the contrary, to have been
a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feehng on his side, and
this surprises me. A man like him, in his situation ]
With a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken ! Fanny
Harville was a very superior creature ; and his attach-
ment to her was indeed attachment. A man does not
recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a
woman ! — He ought not — he does not."
Either from the consciousness, however, that his friend
had recovered, or from some other consciousness, he went
no farther ; and Anne, who, in spite of the agitated voice
in which the latter part had been uttered, and in spite
of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless
slam of the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking
through, had distinguished every word, was struck, grati-
fied, confused, and beginning to breathe very quick, and^
feel an hundred things in a moment. It was impossible
for her to enter on such a subject ; and yet, after a pause,
feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the
smallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far
as to say,
" You were a good while at Lyme, I think ? "
" About a fortnight. I could not leave it till Louisa's
doing well was quite ascertained. I had been too deeply
concerned in the mischief to be soon at peace. It had
been my doing — solely mine. She would not have been
obstinate if I had not been weak. The country round
Lyme is very fine. I walked and rode a great deal ; and
the more I saw, the more I found to admire."
*' I should very much like to see Lyme again," said
Anne.
" Indeed ! I should not have supposed that you could
have found any thing in Lyme to inspire such a feeling.
The horror and distress you were involved in — the stretch
of mind, the wear of spirits ! — I should have thought
your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong
disgust."
" The last few hours were certainly very painful,"
F f 2 replied
( 184 )
replied Anne : " but when pain is over, the remembrance
of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place
the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all
suffering, nothing but suffering — which was by no means
the case at Lyme. We were only in anxiety and distress
during the last two hours ; and, previously, there had
been a great deal of enjoyment. So much novelty and
beauty ! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place
would be interesting to me — but there is real beauty at
Lyme : and in short " (with a faint blush at some
recollections) " altogether my impressions of the place
are very agreeable."
As she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and
the very party appeared for whom they were waiting.
" Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple," was the rejoicing
sound ; and with all the eagerness compatible with
anxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped
forward to meet her. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret,
escorted by Mr. Elliot and Colonel Wallis, who had hap-
pened 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 interest-
ing, 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 every one, as
being less happy than herself.
The delightful emotions were a little subdued, when,
on stepping back from the group, to be joined again by
Captain Wentworth, she saw that he was gone. She was
just in time to see him turn into the concert room. He
was
( 185 )
was gone — ^Jie had disappeared : she felt a moment's
regret. But " they should meet again. He would look
for her — he would find her out long before the evening
were over — and at present, perhaps, it was as well to be
asunder. She was in need of a little interval for recollec-
tion."
Upon Lady Russell's appearance soon afterwards, the
whole party was collected, and all that remained, was to
marshal themselves, and proceed into the concert room ;
and be of all the consequence in their power, draw as
many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many
people as they could.
Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot
as they walked in. Elizabeth, arm in arm with Miss
Carteret, and looking on the broad back of the dowager
Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish
for which did not seem within her reach ; and Anne
but it would be an insult to the nature of Anne's felicity,
to draw any comparison between it and her sister's ; the
origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other all generous
attachment.
Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of
the room. Her happiness was from within. Her eyes were
bright, and her cheeks glowed, — but she knew nothing
about it. She was thinking only of the last half hour,
and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty
range over it. His choice of subjects, his expressions,
and still more his manner and look, had been such as
she could see in only one light. His opinion of Louisa
Musgrove's inferiority, an opinion which he had seemed
solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his
feelings as to a first, strong attachment, — sentences begun
which he could not finish — his half averted eyes, and more
than half expressive glance, — all, all declared that he had
a heart returning to her at least ; that anger, resentment,
avoidance, were no more ; and that they were succeeded,
not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tender-
ness of the past ; yes, some share of the tenderness of
the
( 186 )
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 deter-
mined 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 con-
sent for a time to be happy in an humbler way.
The party was divided, and disposed of on two con-
tiguous benches : Anne was among those on the foremost,
and Mr. Elliot had manoeuvred so well, with the assistance
of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by her.
Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal
object of Colonel Wallis's gallantry, was quite contented.
Anne's mind was in a most favourable state for the
entertainment of the evening : it was just occupation
enough : she had feelings for the tender, spirits for the
gay, attention for the scientific, and patience for the weari-
some ; 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. Elliot. — They had a concert
bill between them.
" This," said she, " is neariy 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 under-
stand the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar."
" Yes, yes, I see you are. I see you know nothing of
the matter. You have only knowledge enough of the
language, to translate at sight these inverted, transposed,
curtailed Italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant
English. You need not say anything more of your
ignorance. — Here is complete proof."
" I will
( 187 )
" I will not oppose such kind politeness ; but I should
be sorry to be examined by a real proficient."
" I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden-
place so long," replied he, " without knowing something
of Miss Anne Elliot ; and I do regard her as one who is
too modest, for the world in general to be aware of half
her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for
modesty to be natural in any other woman."
" For shame ! for shame ! — this is too much of flattery.
I forget what we are to have next," turning to the bill.
" Perhaps," said Mr. Elliot, speaking low, " I have had
a longer acquaintance with your character than you are
aware of."
" Indeed ! — How so ? You can have been acquainted
with it only since I came to Bath, excepting as you might
hear me previously spoken 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, accomplish-
ments, manner — they were all described, they were all
present to me."
Mr. Elliot was not disappointed in the interest he
hoped to raise. No one can withstand the charm of such
a mystery. To have been described long ago to a recent
acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible ; and
Anne was all curiosity. She wondered, and questioned
him eagerly — but in vain. He delighted in being asked,
but he would not tell.
" No, no — some time or other perhaps, but not now.
He would mention no names now ; but such, he could
assure her, had been the fact. He had many years ago
received such a description of Miss Anne Elliot, as had
inspired him with the highest idea of her merit, and
excited the warmest curiosity to know her."
Anne could think of no one so likely to have spoken
with partiality of her many years ago, as the Mr. Went-
worth, of Monkford, Captain Wentworth's brother. He
might
( 188 )
might have been in Mr. Elliot's company, but she had
not courage to ask the question.
*' The name of Anne Elliot," said he, " has long had
an interesting sound to me. Very long has it possessed
a charm over my fancy ; and, if I dared, I would breathe
my wishes that the name might never change."
Such she believed were his words ; but scarcely had
she received their sound, than her attention was caught
by other sounds immediately behind her, which rendered
every thing else trivial. Her father and Lady Dalrymple
were speaking.
"A well-looking man," said Sir Walter, " a very well-
looking man."
" A very fine young man indeed ! " said Lady Dal-
rymple. " More air than one often sees in Bath. — Irish,
I dare say."
" No, I just know his name. A bowing acquaintance.
Wentworth — Captain Wentworth of the navy. His sister
married my tenant in Somersetshire, — the Croft, who
rents Kellynch."
Before Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne's eyes
had caught the right direction, and distinguished Captain
Wentworth, standing among a cluster of men at a little
distance. As her eyes fell on him, his seemed to be
withdrawn from her. It had that appearance. It seemed
as if she had been one moment too late ; and as long as
she dared observe, he did not look again : but the per-
formance was re-commencing, and she was forced to seem
to restore her attention to the orchestra, and look straight
forward.
When she could give another glance, he had moved
away. He could not have come nearer to her if he would ;
she was so surrounded and shut in : but she would rather
have caught his eye.
Mr. Elliot's speech too distressed her. She had no
longer any inclination to talk to him. She wished him
not so near her.
The first act was over. Now she hoped for some
beneficial
( 189 )
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 conversa-
tion with Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the oppor-
tunity. She was persuaded by Lady Russell's countenance
that she had seen him.
He did not come however. Anne sometimes fancied
she discerned him at a distance, but he never came. The
anxious interval wore away unproductively. The others
returned, the room filled again, benches were reclaimed
and re-possessed, and another hour of pleasure or of
penance was to be set out, another hour of music was to
give delight or the gapes, as real or affected taste for it
prevailed. To Anne, it chiefly wore the prospect of an
hour of agitation. She could not quit that room in peace
without seeing Captain Wentworth once more, without
the interchange of one friendly look.
In re-settling themselves, there were now many changes,
the result of which was favourable for her. Colonel Wallis
declined sitting down again, and Mr. Elliot was invited
by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret, in a manner not to
be refused, to sit between them ; and by some other
removals, and a little scheming of her own, Anne was
enabled to place herself much nearer the end of the bench
than she had been before, much more within reach of
a passer-by. She could not do so, without comparing
herself with Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles, —
but still she did it, and not with much happier effect ;
though by what 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
( 190 )
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 indubit-
able. The difference between his present air and what it
had been in the octagon room was strikingly great. — Why
was it ? She thought of her father — of Lady Russell.
Could there have been any unpleasant glances ? He
began by speaking of the concert, gravely ; more like
the Captain Wentworth of Uppercross ; owned himself
disappointed, had expected better singing ; and, in short,
must confess that he should not be sorry when it was
over. Anne replied, and spoke in defence of the per-
formance so well, and yet in allowance for his feelings,
so pleasantly, that his countenance improved, and he
replied again with almost a smile. They talked for a few
minutes more ; the improvement held ; he even looked
down towards the bench, as if he saw a place on it well
worth occupying ; when, at that moment, a touch on her
shoulder obliged Anne to turn round. — It came from
Mr. Elliot. He begged her pardon, but she must be
applied to, to explain Italian again. Miss Carteret was
very anxious to have a general idea of what was next
to be sung. Anne could not refuse ; but never had she
sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit.
A few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevit-
ably 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 I
Could she have believed it a week ago — three hours ago !
For
( 191 )
For a moment the gratification was exquisite. But alas !
there were very different thoughts to succeed. How was
such jealousy to be quieted ? How was the truth to
reach him ? How, in all the peculiar disadvantages of
their respective situations, would he ever learn her real
sentiments ? It was misery to think of Mr. Elliot's
attentions. — Their evil was incalculable.
CHAP.
( 192 )
CHAPTER IX.
Anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her
promise of going to Mrs. Smith ; meaning that it should
engage her from home at the time when Mr. Elliot would
be most likely to call ; for to avoid Mr. Elliot was almost
a first object.
She felt a great deal of good will towards him. In
spite of the mischief of his attentions, she owed him
gratitude and regard, perhaps compassion. She could not
help thinking much of the extraordinary circumstances
attending their acquaintance ; of the right which he
seemed to have to interest her, by every thing in situa-
tion, by his own sentiments, by his early prepossession.
It was altogether very extraordinary. — Flattering, but
painful. There was much to regret. How she might
have felt, had there been no Captain Wentworth in the
case, was not worth enquiry ; for there was a Captain
Wentworth : and be the conclusion of the present sus-
pense good or bad, her affection would be his for ever.
Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from
other men, than their final separation.
Prettier musings of high- wrought love and eternal con-
stancy, could never have passed along the streets of
Bath, than Anne was sporting with from Camden-place
to Westgate-buildings. It was almost enough to spread
purification and perfume all the way.
She was sure of a pleasant reception ; and her friend
seemed this morning particularly obliged to her for
coming, seemed hardly to have expected her, though it
had been an appointment.
An account of the concert was immediately claimed ;
and Anne's recollections of the concert were quite happy
enough to animate her features, and make her rejoice to
talk of it. All that she could tell, she told most gladly ;
but
'&^
( 193 )
but the all was little for one who had been there, and
unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs. Smith, who
had already heard, through the short cut of a laundress
and a waiter, rather more of the general success and
produce of the evening than Anne could relate ; and who
now asked in vain for several particulars of the company.
Every body of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was
well known by name to Mrs. Smith.
" The little Durands were there, I conclude,'* said she,
" with their mouths open to catch the music ; like
unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss
a concert."
" Yes. I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr. Elliot
say they were in the room."
** The Ibbotsons — were they there ? and the two new
beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who is talked of for
one of them."
" I do not know. — I do not think they were."
*' Old Lady Mary Maclean ? I need not ask after her.
She never misses, I know ; and you must have seen
her. She must have been in your own circle, for as you
went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of
grandeur ; round the orchestra, of course."
" No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been
very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily
Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off ; and
we were 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 j^ou 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.
( 194 )
" No, no — you were better employed. You need not
tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your
eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed — that you had
always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals
of the concert, it was conversation."
Anne half smiled and said, " Do you see that in my
eye ? "
" Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me
that you were in company last night with the person,
whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the
person who interests you at this present time, more than
all the rest of the world put together."
A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say
nothing.
" And such being the case," continued Mrs. Smith,
after a short pause, " I hope you believe that I do know
how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning.
It is really very good of you to come and sit with me,
when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon
your time."
Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the
astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's*
penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain
Wentworth could have reached her. After another short
silence —
" Pray," said Mrs. Smith, " is Mr. Elliot aware of your
acquaintance with me ? Does he know that I am in Bath ? "
" Mr. Elliot ! " repeated Anne, looking up surprised.
A moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had
been under. She caught it instantaneously ; and, recover-
ing 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
( 195 )
" 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 ElUot, 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," repHed Anne ; " but I suspect that you are con-
sidering 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. EUiot's
relation. If in that Hght, if there is any thing 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 httle premature, I perceive. I beg
your pardon. I ought to have waited for official informa-
tion. But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an old friend,
do give me a hint as to when I may speak. Next week ?
To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all
settled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr. Elliot's
good fortune."
" No," replied Anne, " nor next week, nor next, nor
next. I assure you that nothing of the sort you are
thinking of will be settled any week. I am not going
to marry Mr. Elliot. I should like to know why you
imagine I am."
Mrs. Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled,
shook her head, and exclaimed,
" Now, how I do wish I understood you ! How I do
wish I knew what you were at ! I have a great idea that
you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment
comes. Till it does come, you know, we women never
mean to have any body. It is a thing of course among
us.
( 196 )
US, that every man is refused — till he offers. But why
should you be cruel ? Let me plead for my — present
friend I cannot call him — but for my former friend.
Where can you look for a more suitable match ? Where
could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man ?
Let me recommend Mr. Elliot. I am sure you hear
nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis ; and who
can know him better than Colonel Wallis ? "
" My dear Mrs. Smith, Mr. Elliot's wife has not been
dead much above half a year. He ought not to be
supposed to be paying his addresses to any one."
" Oh ! if these are your only objections," cried
Mrs. Smith, archly, " Mr. Elliot is safe, and I shall give
myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget me
when you are married, that's all. Let him know me to
be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the
trouble required, which it is very natural for him now,
with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to
avoid and get rid of as he can — very natural, perhaps.
Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of
course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me.
Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be
very happy. Mr. Elliot has sense to understand the value
of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked
as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters,
and safe in his character. He will not be led astray, he
will not be misled by others to his ruin."
" No," said Anne, " I can readily beHeve all that of
my cousin. He seems to have a calm, decided temper,
not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him
with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing
that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise.
But I have not known him long ; and he is not a man,
I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this
manner of speaking of him, Mrs. Smith, convince you
that he is nothing to me ? Surely, this must be calm
enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me.
Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little
reason
( 19T )
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 sup-
posing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night
might afford : — not Mr. EUiot ; it is not Mr. Elliot
that—"
She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had
implied so much ; but less would hardly have been
sufficient. Mrs. Smith would hardly have believed so
soon in Mr. Elliot's failure, but from the perception of
there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly
submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing
beyond ; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was
impatient to know why Mrs. Smith should have fancied
she was to marry Mr. Elliot, where she could have received
the idea, or from whom she could have heard it.
" Do tell me how it first came into your head.*'
" It first came into my head," replied Mrs. Smith,
*' upon finding how much you were together, and feeling
it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished
for by everybody belonging to either of you ; and you
may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have
disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it
spoken of till two days ago."
" And has it indeed been spoken of ? "
" Did you observe the woman who opened the door to
you, when you called yesterday ? "
" No. Was not it Mrs. Speed, as usual, or the maid ?
I observed no one in particular."
" It was my friend, Mrs. Rooke — Nurse Rooke, who, by
the by, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted
to be in the way to let you in. She came away from
Marlborough-buildings only on Sunday ; and she it was
who told me you were to marry Mr. Elliot. She had had
it from Mrs. Wallis herself, which did not seem bad
authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening,
and gave me the whole history."
" The whole history ! " repeated Anne, laughing. ** She
1781.5 Gff could
( 198 )
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 cir-
cumstances. But not now : no, I thank you, I have
nothing to trouble you with."
" I think you spoke of having known Mr. Elliot many
years ? "
" I did."
" Not before he married, I suppose ? "
" Yes ; he was not married when I knew him first."
" And — were you much acquainted ? "
" Intimately.''
" Indeed ! Then do tell me what he was at that time
of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr. Elliot
was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he
appears now ? "
" I have not seen Mr. Elliot these three years," was
Mrs. Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impos-
sible to pursue the subject farther ; and Anne felt that
she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They
were both silent — Mrs. Smith very thoughtful. At last,
" I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried,
in her natural tone of cordiality, " I beg your pardon for
the short answers I have been giving you^ but I have
been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting
and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There
were many things to be taken into the account. One
hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making
mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems
worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable
beneath.
( 199 )
beneath. However, I have determined ; I think I am
right ; I think you ought to be made acquainted with
Mr. ElHot's real character. Though I fully believe that,
at present, you have not the smallest intention of accept-
ing 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. ElHot is a man without heart or
conscience ; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who
thinks only of himself ; who, for his own interest or ease,
would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that
could be perpetrated without risk of his general character.
He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been
the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and
desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally
beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or com-
passion. Oh ! he is black at heart, hollow and black ! "
Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made
her pause, and in a calmer manner she added,
" My expressions startle you. You must allow for an
injured, angry woman. But I will try to command my-
self. I will not abuse him. I will only tell you what
I have found him. Facts shall speak. He was the
intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and
loved him, and thought him as good as himself. The
intimacy had been formed before our marriage. I found
them most intimate friends ; and I, too, became exces-
sively 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 gentle-
man. He had always a home with us whenever he chose
it ; he was always welcome ; he was like a brother. My
G g 2 poor
( SCO )
poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in
the world, would have divided his last farthing with him ;
and I know that his purse was open to him ; I know
that he often assisted him."
" This must have been about that very period of
Mr. Elliot's life," said Anne, " which has always excited
my particular curiosity. It must have been about the
same time that he became known to my father and sister.
I never knew him myself, I only heard of him, but there
was a something in his conduct then with regard to my
father and sister, and afterwards in the circumstances of
his marriage, which I never could quite reconcile with
present times. It seemed to announce a different sort
of man."
" I know it all, I know it all," cried Mrs. Smith. " He
had been introduced to Sir Walter and your sister before
I was acquainted with him, but I heard him speak of
them for ever. I know he was invited and encouraged,
and I know he did not choose to go. I can satisfy you,
perhaps, on points which you would little expect ; and
as to his marriage, I knew all about it at the time. I was
privy to all the fors and againsts, I was the friend to
whom he confided his hopes and plans, and though I did
not know his wife previously, (her inferior situation in
society, indeed, rendered that impossible) yet I knew her
all her life afterwards, or, at least, till within the last
two years of her life, and can answer any question you
wish to put."
" Nay," said Anne, " I have no particular enquiry to
make about her. I have always understood they were
not a happy couple. But I should like to know why, at
that time of his life, he should slight my father's acquain-
tance as he did. My father was certainly disposed to
take very kind and proper notice of him. Why did
Mr. Elliot draw back ? "
" Mr. ElUot," 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 deter-
mined
( 201 )
mined to make it by marriage. He was determined, at
least, not to mar it by an imprudent marriage ; and
I know it was his belief, (whether justly or not, of course
I cannot decide) that your father and sister, in their
civilities and invitations, were designing a match between
the heir and the young lady ; and it was impossible that
such a match should have answered his ideas of wealth
and independance. That was his motive for drawing
back, I can assure you. He told me the whole story.
He had no concealments with me. It was curious, that
having just left you behind me in Bath, my first and
principal acquaintance on marrying, should be your
cousin ; and that, through him, I should be continually
hearing of your father and sister. He described one
Miss Elliot, and I thought 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 circumstance, prob-
ably, which first opened your eyes to his character."
Mrs. Smith hesitated a little here. " Oh ! those things
are too common. When one lives in the world, a man
or woman's marrying for money is too common to strike
one as it ought. I was very young, and associated only
with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set,
without any strict rules of conduct. W^e lived for enjoy-
ment. I think differently now ; time and sickness, and
sorrow, have»given me other notions ; but, at that period,
I must
( 202 )
I must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr. Elliot
was doing. * To do the best for himself,' passed as
a duty."
" But was not she a very low woman ? "
" Yes ; which I objected to, but he would not regard.
Money, money, was all that he wanted. Her father was
a grazier, her grandfather had been a butcher, but that
was all nothing. She was a fine woman, had had a decent
education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown
by chance into Mr. Elliot's company, and fell in love
"with him ; and not a difficulty or a scruple was there
on his side, with respect to her birth. All his caution
was spent in being secured of the real amount of her
fortune, before he committed himself. Depend upon it,
whatever esteem Mr. Elliot may have for his own situa-
tion in life now, as a young man he had not the smallest
value for it. His chance of the Kellynch estate was
something, but all the honour of the family he held as
cheap as dirt. I have often heard him declare, that if
baronetcies were saleable, any body should have his for
fifty pounds, arms and motto, name and livery included ;
but I will not pretend to repeat half that I used to hear
him say on that subject. It would not be fair. And yet
you ought to have proof ; for what is all this but asser-
tion ? and you shall have proof."
" Indeed, my dear Mrs. Smith, I want none," cried
Anne. " You have asserted nothing contradictory to
what Mr. Elliot appeared to be some years ago. This is
all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to hear and
believe. I am more curious to know why he should be
so different now ? "
" But for my satisfaction ; if you will have the good-
ness to ring for Mary — stay, I am sure you will have the
still greater goodness of going yourself into my bed-room,
and bringing me the small inlaid box which you will find
on the upper shelf of the closet."
Anne, seeing her friend to be earnestly bent on it, did
as she was desired. The box was brought and placed
before
I
( 203 )
before her, and Mrs. Smith, sighing over it as she unlocked
it, said,
" This is full of papers belonging to him, to my husband,
a small portion only of what I had to look over when
I lost him. The letter I am looking for, was one written
by Mr. Elliot to him before our marriage, and happened
to be saved ; why, one can hardly imagine. But he was
careless and immethodical, like other men, about those
things ; and when I came to examine his papers, I found
it with others still more trivial from different people
scattered here and there, while many letters and memor-
andums of real importance had been destroyed. Here it
is. I would not burn it, because being even then very
little satisfied with Mr. Elliot, I was determined to pre-
serve every document of former intimacy. I have now
another motive for being glad that I can produce it."
This was the letter, directed to " Charles Smith, Esq.
Tunbridge Wells," and dated from London, as far back
as July, 1803.
" Dear Smith,
" I have received yours. Your kindness almost over-
' powers me. I wish nature had made such hearts as
' yours more common, but I have lived three and twenty
' years in the world, and have seen none like it. At
' present, believe me, I have no need of your services,
* being in cash agaui. Give me joy : I have got rid of
' Sir Walter and Miss. They are gone back to Kellynch,
' and almost made me swear to visit them this summer,
' but my first visit to Kellynch will be with a surveyor,
' to tell me how to bring it with best advantage to the
' hammer. The baronet, nevertheless, is not unlikely to
' marry again ; he is quite fool enough. If he does,
' however, they will leave me in peace, which may be
' a decent equivalent for the reversion. He is worse than
' last year.
" I wish I had any name but Elliot. I am sick of it.
' The name of Walter I can drop, thank God ! and
" I desire
( 204 )
" I desire you will never insult me with my second W.
'' again, meaning, for the rest of my life, to be only yours
*' truly,
" Wm. Elliot."
Such a letter could not be read without putting Anne
in a glow ; and Mrs. Smith, observing the high colour
in her face, said,
" The language, I know, is highly disrespectful. Though
I have forgot the exact terms, I have a perfect impression
of the general meaning. But it shews you the man.
Mark his professions to my poor husband. Can any
thing be stronger ? " ^
Anne could not immediately get over the shock and
mortification of finding such words applied to her father.
She was obliged to recollect that her seeing the letter was
a violation of the laws of honour, that no one ought to
be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no
private correspondence could bear the eye of others,
before she could recover calmness enough to return the
letter which she had been meditating over, and say,
"Thank you. This is full proof undoubtedly, proof of
every thing you were saying. But why be acquainted
mth us now ? "
" I can explain this too," cried Mrs. Smith, smiling.
" Can you really ? "
*' Yes. I have shewn you Mr. Elliot, as he was a dozen
years ago, and I will shew him as he is now. I cannot
produce written proof again, but I can give as authentic
oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is now
wanting, and what he is now doing. He is no hypocrite
now. He truly wants to marry you. His present atten-
tions to your family are very sincere, quite from the heart.
I will give you my authority ; his friend Colonel Wallis."
" Colonel Wallis ! are you acquainted with him ? "
" No. It does not come to me in quite so direct a line
as that ; it takes a bend or two, but nothing of con-
sequence. The stream is as good as at first ; the little
rubbish
( 205 )
rubbish it collects in the turnings, is easily moved away.
Mr. Elliot talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his
views on you — which said Colonel Wallis I imagine to be
in himself a sensible, careful, discerning sort of character ;
but Colonel Wallis has a very pretty silly wife, to whom
he tells things which he had better not, and he repeats
it all to her. She, in the overflowing spirits of her
recovery, repeats it all to her nurse ; and the nurse,
knowing my acquaintance with you, very naturally brings
it all to me. On Monday evening my good friend
Mrs. Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of Marl-
borough-buildings. When I talked of a whole history
I therefore, you see, I was not romancing so much as you
supposed."
" My dear Mrs. Smith, your authority is deficient. This
will not do. Mr. Elliot's having any views on me will
not in the least account for the efforts he made towards
a reconciliation with my father. That was all prior to
my coming to Bath. I found them on the most friendly
terms when I arrived."
" I know you did ; I know it all perfectly, but " —
" Indeed, Mrs. Smith, we must not expect to get real
information in such a line. Facts or opinions which are
to pass through the hands of so many, to be misconceived
by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can hardly
have much truth left."
" Only give me a hearing. You will soon be able to
judge of the general credit due, by listening to some
particulars which you can yourself immediately contradict
or confirm. Nobody supposes that you were his first
inducement. He had seen you indeed, before he came
to Bath and admired you, but without knowing it to be
you. So says my historian at least. Is this true ? Did
he see you last summer or autumn, * somewhere down in
the west,' to use her own words, without knowing it to
be you ? "
" He certainly did. So far it is very true. At Lj-nie :
I happened to be at Lyme."
"Well,'^
( 206 )
" Well," continued Mrs. Smith triumphantly, *' grant
my friend the credit due to the establishment of the first
point asserted. He saw you then at Lyme, and liked you
so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet with you
again in Camden-place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from
that moment, I have no doubt, had a double motive in
his visits there. But there was another, and an earlier ;
which I will now explain. If there is any thing in my
story which you know to be either false or improbable,
stop me. My account states, that your sister's friend,
the lady now staying with you, whom I have heard you
mention, came to Bath with Miss Elliot and Sir Walter
as long ago as September, (in short when they first came
themselves) and has been staying there ever since ; that
she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and
plausible, and altogether such in situation and manner,
as to give a general idea among Sir Walter's acquaintance,
of her meaning to be Lady Elliot, and as general a sur-
prise that Miss Elliot should be apparently blind to the
danger."
Here Mrs. Smith paused a moment ; but Anne had
not a word to say, and she continued,
" This was the light in which it appeared to those who
knew the family, long before your return to it ; and
Colonel Wallis had his eye upon your father enough to
be sensible of it, though he did not then visit in Camden-
place ; but his regard for Mr. Elliot gave him an interest
in watching all that was going on there, and when
Mr. Elliot came to Bath for a day or two, as he happened
to do a little before Christmas, Colonel Wallis made him
acquainted with the appearance of things, and the reports
beginning to prevail. — ^Now you are to understand that
time had worked a very material change in Mr. Elliot's
opinions as to the value of a baronetcy. Upon all points
of blood and connexion, he is a completely altered man.
Having long had as much money as he could spend,
nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence,
he has been gradually learning to pin his happiness upon
the
( 207 )
the consequence he is heir to. I thought it coming on,
before our acquaintance ceased, but it is now a confirmed
feehng. He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir WilHam.
You may guess therefore that the news he heard from
his friend, could not be very agreeable, and you may
guess what it produced ; the resolution of coming back
to Bath as soon as possible, and of fixing himself here
for a time, with the view of renewing his former acquain-
tance and recovering such a footing in the family, as
might give him the means of ascertaining the degree of
his danger, and of circumventing the lady if he found it
material. This was agreed upon between the two friends,
as the only thing to be done ; and Colonel Wallis was
to assist in every way that he could. He was to be
introduced, and Mrs. Wallis was to be introduced, and
every body was to be introduced. Mr. Elliot came back
accordingly ; and on application was forgiven, as you
know, and re-admitted into the family ; and there it was
his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival
added another motive) to watch Sir Walter and Mrs. Clay.
He omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw
himself in their way, called at all hours — but I need not
be particular on this subject. You can imagine what an
artful man would do ; and with this guide, perhaps, may
recollect what you have seen him do."
" Yes," said Anne, " you tell me nothing which does
not accord with what I have known, or could imagine.
There is always something offensive in the details of
cunning. The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicitj'^
must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which
really surprises me. I know those who would be shocked
by such a representation of Mr. Elliot, who would have
difficulty in believing it ; but I have never been satisfied.
I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct
than appeared. — I should like to know his present opinion,
as to the probability of the event he has been in dread
of ; whether he considers the danger to be lessening
or not."
" Lessening,
( 208 )
" Lessening, I understand," replied Mrs. Smith. " He
thinks Mrs. Clay afraid of him, aware that he sees through
her, and not daring to proceed as she might do in his
absence. But since he must be absent some time or
other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure, while
she holds her present influence. Mrs. Wallis has an
amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it is to be put into
the marriage articles when you and Mr. Elliot marry,
that your father is not to marry Mrs. Clay. A scheme,
worthy of Mrs. Wallis's understanding, by all accounts ;
but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it. —
'* Why, to be sure, ma'am," said she, " it would not
prevent his marrying any body else." And indeed, to
own the truth, I do not think nurse in her heart is a very
strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match.
She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony you
know, and (since self will intrude) who can say that she
may not have some flying visions of attending the next
Lady Elliot, through Mrs. WaUis's recommendation ? "
" I am very glad to know all this," said Anne, after
a little thoughtfulness. " It will be more painful to me
in some respects to be in company with him, but I shall
/ know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more
direct. Mr. Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial,
worldly man, who has never had any better principle to
. guide him than selfishness."
But Mr. Elliot was not yet done with. Mrs. Smith had
been carried away from her first direction, and Anne
had forgotten, in the interest of her own family concerns,
how much had been originally implied against him ; but
her attention was now called to the explanation of those
first hints, and she listened to a recital Avhich, if it did not
perfectly justify the unqualified bitterness of Mrs. Smith,
proved him to have been very unfeeling in his conduct
towards her, very deficient both in justice and compassion.
She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing
unimpaired by Mr. Elliot's marriage) they had been as
before always together, and Mr. Elliot had led his friend
into
( 209 )
into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs. Smith did
not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender
of throwing any on her husband ; but Anne could collect
that their income had never been equal to their style of
living, and that from the first, there had been a great
deal of general and joint extravagance. From his wife's
account of him, she could discern Mr. Smith to have been
a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and
not strong understanding, much more amiable than his
friend, and very unlike him — led by him, and probably
despised by him. Mr. Elliot, raised by his marriage to
great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of
pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without
involving himself, (for with all his self-indulgence he had
become a prudent man) and beginning to be rich, just
as his friend ought to have found himself to be poor,
seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's
probable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompt-
ing and encouraging expenses, which could end only in
ruin. And the Smiths accordingly had been ruined.
The husband had died just in time to be spared the full
knowledge of it. They had previously known embarrass-
ments enough to try the friendship of their friends, and
to prove that Mr. Elliot's had better not be tried ; but
it was not till his death that the wretched state of his
affairs was fully known. With a confidence in Mr. Elliot's
regard, more creditable to his feelings than his judgment,
Mr. Smith had appointed him the executor of his will ;
but Mr. Elliot would not act, and the difficulties and
distresses which this refusal had heaped on her, in addi-
tion to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been
such as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or
listened to without corresponding indignation.
Anne was shewn some letters of his on the occasion,
answers to urgent applications from Mrs. Smith, which
all breathed the same stern resolution of not engaging in
a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold civility, the same
hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it might
bring
( 210 )
bring on her. It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude
and inhumanity ; and Anne felt at some moments, that
no flagrant open crime could have been worse. She had
a great deal to listen to ; all the particulars of past sad
scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon distress, which
in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were
dwelt on now with a natural indulgence. Anne could
perfectly comprehend the exquisite relief, and was only
the more inclined to wonder at the composure of her
friend's usual state of mind.
There was one circumstance in the history of her
grievances of particular irritation. She had good reason
to believe that some property of her husband in the West
Indies, which had been for many years under a sort of
sequestration for the payment of its own incumbrances,
might be recoverable by proper measures ; and this pro-
perty, though not large, would be enough to make her
comparatively rich. But there was nobody to stir in it.
Mr. Elliot would do nothing, and she could do nothing
herself, equally disabled from personal exertion by her
state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by
her want of money. She had no natural connexions to
assist her even with their counsel, and she could not
afford to purchase the assistance of the law. This was
a cruel aggravation of actually streightened means. To
feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that
a little trouble in the right place might do it, and to fear
that delay might be even weakening her claims, was hard
to bear !
It was on this point that she had hoped to engage
Anne's good offices with Mr. Elliot. She had previously,
in the anticipation of their marriage, been very appre-
hensive of losing her friend by it ; but on being assured
that he could have made no attempt of that nature, since
he did not even know her to be in Bath, it immediately
occurred, that something might be done in her favour by
the influence of the woman he loved, and she had been
hastily preparing to interest Anne's feelings, as far as the
observances
( 211 )
observances due to Mr. Elliot's character would allow,
when Anne's refutation of the supposed engagement
changed the face of every thing, and while it took from
her the new-formed hope of succeeding in the object of
her first anxiety, left her at least the comfort of telling
the whole story her own way.
After listening to this full description of Mr. Elliot,
Anne could not but express some surprise at Mrs. Smith's
having spoken of him so favourably in the beginning of
their conversation. " She had seemed to recommend and
praise him ! "
" My dear," was Mrs. Smith's reply, " there was nothing
else to be done. I considered your marrying him as
certain, though he might not yet have made the offer,
and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he
had been your husband. My heart bled for you, as
I talked of happiness. And yet, he is sensible, he is
agreeable, and with such a woman as you, it was not
absolutely hopeless. He was very unkind to his first
wife. They were wretched together. But she was too
ignorant and giddy for respect, and he had never loved
her. I was willing to hope that you must fare better."
Anne could just acknowledge within herself such a pos-
sibility of having been induced to marry him, as made
her shudder at the idea of the misery which must have
followed. It was just possible that she might have been
persuaded by Lady Russell ! And under such a supposi-
tion, which would have been most miserable^ when time
had disclosed all, too late ?
It was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no
longer deceived ; and one of the concluding arrangements
of this important conference, which carried them through
the greater part of the morning, was, that Anne bad full
liberty to commjinicate to her friend every thing relative
to Mrs. Smith, in which his conduct was involved.
CHAP-
( 212 )
CHAPTER X.
Anne went home to think over all that she had heard.
In one point, her feelings were relieved by this know-
ledge of Mr. Elliot. There was no longer any thing of
tenderness due to him. He stood, as opposed to Captain
Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness ; and
the evil of his attentions last night, the irremediable
mischief he might have done, was considered with sensa-
tions unqualified, unperplexed. — Pity for him was all
over. But this was the only point of relief. In every
other respect, in looking around her, or penetrating for-
ward, she saw more to distrust and to apprehend. She
was concerned for the disappointment and pain Lady
Russell would be feeling, for the mortifications which
must be hanging over her father and sister, and had all
the distress of foreseeing many evils, without knowing
how to avert any one of them. — She was most thankful
for her own knowledge of him. She had never considered
herself as entitled to reward for not slighting an old friend
like Mrs. Smith, but here was a reward indeed springing
from it ! — Mrs. Smith had been able to tell her what no
one else could have done. Could the knowledge have
been extended through her family ! — But this was a vain
idea. She must talk to Lady Russell, tell her, consult
with her, and having done her best, wait the event with
as much composure as possible ; and after all, her greatest
want of composure would be in that quarter of the mind
which could not be opened to Lady Russell, in that flow
of anxieties and fears which must be all to herself.
She found,^ on reaching home, that she had, as she
intended, escaped seeing Mr. Elliot ; that he had called
and paid them a long morning visit ; but hardly had she
congratulated herself, and felt safe till to-morrow, when
she heard that he was coming again in the evening.
" I had
( 213 )
" I had not the smallest intention of asking him," said
Elizabeth, with affected carelessness, *' but he gave so
many hints ; so Mrs. Clay says, at least."
" Indeed I do say it. I never saw any body in my
life spell harder for an invitation. Poor man ! I was
really in pain for him ; for your hard-hearted sister, Miss
Anne, seems bent on cruelty."
'' Oh ! " cried Elizabeth, " I have been rather too much
used to the game to be soon overcome by a gentleman's
hints. However, when I found how excessively he was
regretting that he should miss my father this morning,
I gave way immediately, for I would never really omit
an opportunity of bringing him and Sir Walter together.
They appear to so much advantage in company with each
other ! Each behaving so pleasantly ! Mr. Elliot looking
up with so much respect ! "
" Quite delightful ! " cried Mrs. Clay, not daring, how-
ever, to turn her eyes towards Anne. " Exactly like
father and son ! Dear Miss Elliot, may I not say father
and son ? "
" Oh ! I lay no embargo on any body's words. If you
will have such ideas ! But, upon my word, I am scarcely
sensible of his attentions being beyond those of other
men."
" My dear Miss Elliot ! " exclaimed Mrs. Clay, lifting
up her hands and eyes, and sinking all the rest of her
astonishment in a convenient silence.
" Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed
about him. I did invite him, you know. I sent him
away with smiles. When I found he was really going to
his friends at Thornberry-park for the whole day to-
morrow, I had compassion on him."
Anne admired the good acting of the friend, in being
able to shew such pleasure as she did, in the expectation,
and in the actual arrival of the very person whose presence
must really be interfering with her prime object. It was
impossible but that Mrs. Clay must hate the sight of
Mr. Elliot ; and yet she could assume a most obliging,
""•5 H h placid
( 214 )
placid look, and appear quite satisfied with the curtailed
license of devoting herself only half as much to Sir Walter
as she would have done otherwise.
To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr. Elliot
enter the room ; and quite painful to have him approach
and speak to her. She had been used before to feel that
he could not be always quite sincere, but now she saw
insincerity in every thing. His attentive deference to her
father, contrasted with his former language, was odious ;
and when she thought of his cruel conduct towards
Mrs. Smith, she could hardly bear the sight of his present
smiles and mildness, or the sound of his artificial good
sentiments. She meant to avoid any such alteration of
manners as might provoke a remonstrance on his side.
It was a great object with her to escape all enquiry or
eclat ; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool
to him as might be compatible with their relationship,
and to retrace, as quietly as she could, the few steps of
unnecessary intimacy she had been gradually led along.
She was accordingly more guarded, and more cool, than
she had been the night before.
He wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how
and where he could have heard her formerly praised ;
wanted very much to be gratified by more solicitation ;
but the charm was broken : he found that the heat and
animation of a public room were necessary to kindle his
modest cousin's vanity ; he found, at least, that it was
not to be done now, by any of those attempts which he
could hazard among the too-commanding claims of the
others. He little surmised that it was a subject acting
now exactly against his interest, bringing immediately
into her thoughts all those parts of his conduct which
were least excusable.
She had some satisfaction in finding that he was really
going out of Bath the next morning, going early, and
that he would be gone the greater part of two days. He
was invited again to Camden-place the very evening of
his return ; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his
absence
( 215 )
absence was certain. It was bad enough that a Mrs. Clay
should be always before her ; but that a deeper hypocrite
should be added to their party, seemed the destruction of
every thing like peace and comfort. It was so humiliating
to reflect on the constant deception practised on her father
and Elizabeth ; to consider the various sources of morti-
fication preparing for them ! Mrs. Clay's selfishness was
not so complicate nor so revolting as his ; and Anne
would have compounded for the marriage at once, with
all its evils, to be clear of Mr. Elliot's subtleties, in
endeavouring to prevent it.
On Friday morning she meant to go very early to
Lady Russell, and accomplish the necessary communica-
tion ; and she would have gone directly after breakfast
but that Mrs. Clay was also going out on some obliging
purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined
her to wait till she might be safe from such a companion.
She saw Mrs. Clay fairly off, therefore, before she began
to talk of spending the morning in Rivers-street.
" Very well," said Elizabeth, " I have nothing to send
but my love. Oh ! you may as well take back that
tiresome book she would lend me, and pretend I have
read it through. I really cannot be plaguing myself for
ever with all the new poems and states of the nation
that come out. Lady Russell quite bores one with her
new publications. You need not tell her so, but I thought
her dress hideous the other night. I used to think she
had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at
the concert. Something so formal and arrange in her air !
and she sits so upright ! My best love, of course."
" And mine," added Sir Walter. *' Kindest regards.
And you may say, that I mean to call upon her soon.
Make a civil message. But I shall only leave my card.
Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of
life, who make themselves up so little. If she would only
wear rouge, she would not be afraid of being seen ; but
last time I called, I observed the blinds were let down
immediately."
H h 2 While
( 216 )
While her father spoke, there was a knock at the door.
Who could it be ? Anne, remembering the preconcerted
visits, at all hours, of Mr. Elliot, would have expected
him, but for his known engagement seven miles off.
After the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of
approach were heard, and " Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mus-
grove '* were ushered into the room.
Surprise was the strongest emotion raised by their
appearance ; but Anne was really glad to see them ; and
the others were not so sorry but that they could put on
a decent air of welcome ; and as soon as it became clear
that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with
any views of accommodation in that house. Sir Walter
and Elizabeth were able to rise in cordiality, and do the
honours of it very well. They were come to Bath for
a few days with Mrs. Musgrove, and were at the White
Hart. So much was pretty soon understood ; but till
Sir Walter and Elizabeth were walking Mary into the
other drawing-room, and regaling themselves with her
admiration, Anne could not draw upon Charles's brain
for a regular history of their coming, or an explanation
of some smiling hints of particular business, which had
been ostentatiously dropped by Mary, as well as of some
apparent confusion as to whom their party consisted of.
She then found that it consisted of Mrs. Musgrove,
Henrietta, and Captain Harville, beside their two selves.
He gave her a very plain, intelligible account of the
whole ; a narration in which she saw a great deal of most
characteristic proceeding. The scheme had received its
first impulse by Captain Harville's wanting to come to
Bath on business. He had begun to talk of it a week ago ;
and by way of doing something, as shooting was over,
Charles had proposed coming with him, and Mrs. Harville
had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an
advantage to her husband ; but Mary could not bear to
be left, and had made herself so unhappy about it that,
for a day or two, every thing seemed to be in suspense,
or at an end. But then, it had been taken up by his
father
( 217 )
father and mother. His mother had some old friends in
Bath, whom she wanted to see ; it was thought a good
opportunity for Henrietta to come and buy wedding-
clothes for herself and her sister ; and, in short, it ended
in being his mother's party, that every thing might be
comfortable and easy to Captain Harville ; and he and
Mary were included in it, by way of general convenience.
They had arrived late the night before. Mrs. Harville, her
children, and Captain Benwick, remained with Mr. Mus-
grove and Louisa at Uppercross.
Anne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in
forwardness enough for Henrietta's wedding-clothes to be
talked of : she had imagined such difficulties of fortune
to exist there as must prevent the marriage from being
near at hand ; but she learned from Charles that, very
recently, (since Mary's last letter to herself) Charles
Hayter had been applied to by a friend to hold a living
for a youth who could not possibly claim it under many
years ; and that, on the strength of this present income,
with almost a certainty of something more permanent
long before the term in question, the two families had
consented to the young people's wishes, and that their
marriage was likely to take place in a few months, quite
as soon as Louisa's. " And a very good living it was,"
Charles added, " only five-and-twenty miles from Upper-
cross, and in a very fine country — fine part of Dorsetshire.
In the centre of some of the best preserves in the kingdom,
surrounded by three great proprietors, each more careful
and jealous than the other ; and to two of the three, at
least, Charles Hayter might get a special recommenda-
tion. Not that he will value it as he ought," he observed,
" Charles is too cool about sporting. That's the worst
of him."
" I am extremely glad, indeed," cried Anne, " par-
ticularly glad that this should happen : and that of two
sisters, who both deserve equally well, and who have
always been such good friends, the pleasant prospects of
one should not be dimming those of the other — that they
should
( 218 )
should be so equal in their prosperity and comfort. I hope
your father and mother are quite happy with regard to
both."
" Oh ! yes. My father would be as well pleased if
the gentlemen were richer, but he has no other fault to
find. Money, you know, coming down with money — two
daughters at once — it cannot be a very agreeable opera-
tion, and it streightens him as to many things. However,
I do not mean to say they have not a right to it. It is
very fit they should have daughters' shares ; and I am
sure he has always been a very kind, liberal father to
me. Mary does not above half like Henrietta's match.
She never did, you know. But she does not do him
justice, nor think enough about Winthrop. I cannot
make her attend to the value of the property. It is
a very fair match, as times go ; and I have liked Charles
Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off now."
" Such excellent parents as Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove,"
exclaimed Anne, " should be happy in their children's
marriages. They do every thing to confer happiness,
I am sure. What a blessing to young people to be in
such hands ! Your father and mother seem so totally
free from all those ambitious feelings which have led to
so much misconduct and misery, both in young and old !
I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered now ? "
He answered rather hesitatingly, " Yes, I believe I do —
\ very much recovered ; but she is altered : there is no
running or jumping about, no laughing or dancing ; it is
quite different. If one happens only to shut the door
a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young dab
chick in the water ; and Benwick sits at her elbow,
reading verses, or whispering to her, all day long."
Anne could not help laughing. " That cannot be much
to your taste, I know," said she ; " but I do believe him
to be an excellent young man."
" To be sure he is. Nobody doubts it ; and I hope
you do not think I am so illiberal as to want every man
to have the same objects and pleasures as myself. I have
a great
( 219 )
a great value for Ben wick ; and when one can but get
him to talk, he has plenty to say. His reading has done
him no harm, for he has fought as well as read. He is
a brave fellow. I got more acquainted with him last
Monday than ever I did before. We had a famous set-to
at rat-hunting all the morning, in my father's great barns ;
and he played his part so well, that I have liked him the
better ever since."
Here they were interrupted by the absolute necessity
of Charles's following the others to admire mirrors and
china ; but Anne had heard enough to understand the
present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in its happiness ;
and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none
of the ill-will of envy in it. She would certainly have
risen to their blessings if she could, but she did not want
to lessen theirs.
The visit passed off altogether in high good humour.
Mary was in excellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the
change ; and so well satisfied with the journey in her
mother-in-law's carriage with four horses, and with her
own complete independence of Camden-place, that she
was exactly in a temper to admire every thing as she
ought, and enter most readily into all the superiorities
of the house, as they were detailed to her. She had no
demands on her father or sister, and her consequence was
just enough increased by their handsome drawing-rooms.
Elizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal.
She felt that Mrs. Musgrove and all her party ought to
be asked to dine with them, but she could not bear to
have the difference of style, the reduction of servants,
which a dinner must betraj^ witnessed by those who had
been always so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch. It )
was a struggle between propriety and vanity ; but vanity /
got the better, and then Elizabeth was happy again. 7
These were her internal persuasions. — " Old fashioned ;
notions — country hospitality — we do not profess to give
dinners — few people in Bath do — Lady Alicia never does ;
did not even ask her own sister's family, though they
were
( 220 )
were here a month : and I dare say it would be very
inconvenient to Mrs. Musgrove — put her quite out of her
way. I am sure she would rather not come — she cannot
feel easy with us. I will ask them all for an evening ; that
will be much better — that will be a novelty and a treat.
They have not seen two such drawing rooms before.
They will be delighted to come to-morrow evening. It
shall be a regular party — small, but most elegant." And
this satisfied Elizabeth : and when the invitation was
given to the two present, and promised for the absent,
Mary was as completely satisfied. She was particularly
asked to meet Mr. Elliot, and be introduced to Lady Dal-
rymple and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already
engaged to come ; and she could not have received a more
gratifying attention. Miss Elliot was to have the honour
of calling on Mrs. Musgrove in the course of the morning,
and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go and
see her and Henrietta directly.
Her plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way
for the present. They all three called in Rivers-street
for a couple of minutes ; but Anne convinced herself
that a day's delay of the intended communication could
be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the White
Hart, to see again the friends and companions of the last
autumn, with an eagerness of good will which many
associations contributed to form.
They found Mrs. Musgrove and her daughter within,
and by themselves, and Anne had the kindest welcome
from each. Henrietta was exactly in that state of
recently-improved ^'iews, of fresh-formed happiness, which
made her full of regard and interest for every body she
had ever liked before at all ; and Mrs. Musgrove's real
affection had been won by her usefulness when they were
in distress. It was a heartiness, and a warmth, and
a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the
sad want of such blessings at home. She was intreated
to give them as much of her time as possible, invited for
every day and all day long, or rather claimed as a part of
the
( 221 )
the family ; and in return, she naturally fell into all her
wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on Charles's
leaving them together, was listening to Mrs. Musgrove's
history of Louisa, and to Henrietta's of herself, giving
opinions on business, and recommendations to shops ;
with intervals of every help which Mary required, from
altering her ribbon to settling her accounts, from finding
her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to convince
her that she was not ill used by any body ; which Mary,
well amused as she generally was in her station at a window
overlooking the entrance to the pump-room, could not
but have her moments of imagining.
A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected.
A large party in an hotel ensured a quick-changing,
unsettled scene. One five minutes brought a note, the
next a parcel, and Anne had not been there half an hour,
when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more
than half filled : a party of steady old friends were seated
round Mrs. Musgrove, and Charles came back with Cap-
tains Harville and Wentworth. The appearance of the
latter could not be more than the surprise of the moment.
It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel, that
this arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing
them together again. Their last meeting had been most
important in opening his feelings ; she had derived from
it a delightful conviction ; but she feared from his looksTl
that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had hastened
him away from the concert room, still governed. He did_J
not seem to want to be near enough for conversation.
She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their
course ; and tried to dwell much on this argument of
rational dependance — "Surely, if there be constant
attachment on each side, our hearts must understand
each other ere long. We are not boy and girl, to be
captiously irritable, misled by every moment's inadver-
tence, and wantonly playing with our own happiness.'*
And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt as if their
being in company with each other, under their present
circumstances.
( 222 )
circumstances, could only be exposing them to inad-
vertencies and misconstructions of the most mischievous
kind.
" Anne," cried Mary, still at her window, " there is
Mrs. Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, and
a gentleman with her. I saw them turn the corner from
Bath-street just now. They seem deep in talk. Who is
it ? — Come, and tell me. Good heavens ! I recollect. —
It is Mr. Elliot himself."
" No," cried Anne quickly, " it cannot be Mr. Elliot,
I assure you. He was to leave Bath at nine this morning,
and does not come back till to-morrow."
As she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was
looking at her ; the consciousness of which vexed and
embarrassed her, and made her regret that she had said
so much, simple as it was.
Mary, resenting that she should be supposed not to
know her own cousin, began talking very warmly about
the family features, and protesting still more positively
that it was Mr. Elliot, calling again upon Anne to come
and look herself; but Anne did not mean to stir, and
tried to be cool and unconcerned. Her distress returned,
however, on perceiving smiles and intelligent glances pass
between two or three of the lady visitors, as if they
believed themselves quite in the secret. It was evident
that the report concerning her had spread ; and a short
pause succeeded, which seemed to ensure that it would
now spread farther.
" Do come, Anne," cried Mary, " come and look your-
self. You will be too late, if you do not make haste.
They are parting, they are shaking hands. He is turning
away. Not know Mr. Elliot, indeed ! — You seem to have
forgot all about Lyme."
To pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrass-
ment, Anne did move quietly to the window. She was
just in time to ascertain that it really was Mr. ElUot
(which she had never believed), before he disappeared on
one side, as Mrs. Clay walked quickly off on the other ;
and
{ 223 )
and checking the surprise which she could not but feel
at such an appearance of friendly conference between two
persons of totally opposite interests, she calmly said,
" Yes, it is Mr. Elliot certainly. He has changed his
hour of going, I suppose, that is all — or I may be mis-
taken ; I might not attend ; " and walked back to her
chair, recomposed, and with the comfortable hope of
having acquitted herself well.
The visitors took their leave ; and Charles, having
civilly seen them off, and then made a face at them, and
abused them for coming, began with —
** Well, mother, I have done something for you that
you will like. I have been to the theatre, and secured
a box for to-morrow night. A'n't I a good boy ? I know
you love a play ; and there is room for us all. It holds
nine. I have engaged Captain Wentworth. Anne will
not be sorry to join us, I am sure. We all like a play.
Have not I done well, mother ? "
Mrs. Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to
express her perfect readiness for the play, if Henrietta
and all the others liked it, when Mary eagerly interrupted
her by exclaiming,
" Good heavens, Charles ! how can you think of such
a thing ? Take a box for to-morrow night ! Have you
forgot that we are engaged to Camden-place to-morrow
night ? and that we were most particularly asked on
purpose to meet Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, and
Mr. Elliot — all the principal family connexions — on pur-
pose to be introduced to them ? How can you be so
forgetful ? "
*' Phoo ! phoo ! " replied Charles, " what's an evening
party ? Never worth remembering. Your father might
have asked us to dinner, I think, if he had wanted to see
us. You may do as you like, but I shall go to the play.'*
" Oh ! Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if
you do ! when you promised to go."
" No, I did not promise. I only smirked and bowed,
and said the word * happy.' There was no promise."
"But
( 224 )
" But you must go, Charles. It would be unpardonable
to fail. We were asked on purpose to be introduced.
There was always such a great connexion between the
Dalrymples and ourselves. Nothing ever happened on
either side that was not announced immediately. We
are quite near relations, you know : and Mr. Elliot too,
whom you ought so particularly to be acquainted with !
Every attention is due to Mr. Elliot. Consider, my
father's heir—the future representative of the family."
" Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives,"
cried Charles. " I am not one of those who neglect the
reigning power to bow to the rising sun. If I would not go
for the sake of your father, I should think it scandalous to
go for the sake of his heir. What is Mr. Elliot to me ? "
The careless expression was life to Anne, who saw
that Captain Wentworth was all attention, looking and
listening with his whole soul ; and that the last words
brought his enquiring eyes from Charles to herself.
Charles and Mary still talked on in the same style ;
he, half serious and half jesting, maintaining the scheme
for the play ; and she, invariably serious, most warmly
opposing it, and not omitting to make it known, that
however determined to go to Camden-place herself, she
should not think herself very well used, if they went to
the play without her. Mrs. Musgrove interposed.
" We had better put it off. Charles, you had much
better go back, and change the box for Tuesday. It
would be a pity to be divided, and we should be losing
Miss Anne too, if there is a party at her father's ; and
I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for
the play, if Miss Anne could not be with us."
Anne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness ; and
quite as much so, moreover, for the opportunity it gave
her of decidedly saying —
" If it depended only on my inclination, ma'am, the
party at home (excepting on Mary's account) would not
be the smallest impediment. I have no pleasure in the
sort of meeting, and should be too happy to change it
for
( 225 )
for a play, and with you. But, it had better not be
attempted, perhaps."
She had spoken it ; but she trembled when it was
done, conscious that her words were listened to, and
daring not even to try to observe their effect.
It was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be
the day, Charles only reserving the advantage of still
teasing his wife, by persisting that he would go to the
play to-morrow, if nobody else would.
Captain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the
fire-place ; probably for the sake of walking away from
it soon afterwards, and taking a station, with less bare-
faced design, by Anne.
" You have not been long enough in Bath," said he,
" to enjoy the evening parties of the place."
" Oh ! no. The usual character of them has nothing
for me. I am no card-player."
" You were not formerly, I know. You did not use
to like cards ; but time makes many changes."
" I am not yet so much changed," cried Anne, and
stopped, fearing she hardly knew what misconstruction.
After waiting a few moments he said — and as if it were
the result of immediate feeling — " It is a period, indeed I
Eight years and a half is a period ! "
Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to
Anne's imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour ; for
while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she was
startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to make
use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on
her companions to lose no time, lest somebody else should
come in.
They were obliged to move. Anne talked of being
perfectly ready, and tried to look it ; but she felt that
could Henrietta have known the regret and reluctance of
her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing to quit the
room, she would have found, in all her own sensations
for her cousin, in the very security of his affection, where-
with to pity her.
Their
( 226 )
Their preparations, however, were stopped short.
Alarming sounds were heard ; other visitors approached,
and the door was thrown ojDen for Sir Walter and Miss
Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill.
Anne felt an instant oppression, and, wherever she looked,
saw symptoms of the same. The comfort, the freedom,
the gaiety of the room was over, hushed into cold com-
posure, determined silence, or insipid talk, to meet the
heartless elegance of her father and sister. How morti-
fying to feel that it was so !
Her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular. Captain
Wentworth was acknowledged again by each, by Eliza-
beth more graciously than before. She even addressed
him once, and looked at him more than once. Elizabeth
was, in fact, revolving a great measure. The sequel
explained it. After the waste of a few minutes in saying
the proper nothings, she began to give the invitation
which was to comprise all the remaining dues of the
Musgroves. " To-morrow evening, to meet a few friends,
no formal party." It was all said very gracefully, and
the cards with which she had provided herself, the " Miss
Elliot at home," were laid on the table, with a courteous,
comprehensive smile to all ; and one smile and one card
more decidedly for Captain Wentworth. The truth was,
that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath, to under-
stand the importance of a man of such an air and appear-
ance as his. The past was nothing. The present was
that Captain Wentworth would move about well in her
drawing-room. The card was pointedly given, and Sir
Walter and Elizabeth arose and disappeared.
The interruption had been short, though severe ; and
ease and animation returned to most of those they left,
as the door shut them out, but not to Anne. She could
think only of the invitation she had with such astonish-
ment witnessed ; and of the manner in which it had been
received, a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather
than gratification, of polite acknowledgment rather than
acceptance. She knew him ; she saw disdain in his eye,
and
( 227 )
and could not venture to believe that he had determined
to accept such an offering, as atonement for all the
insolence of the past. Her spirits sank. He held the
card in his hand after they were gone, as if deeply con-
sidering it.
" Only think of Elizabeth's including every body ! "
whispered Mary very audibly. " I do not wonder Captain
Wentworth is delighted ! You see he cannot put the card
out of his hand."
Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his
mouth form itself into a momentary expression of con-
tempt, and turned away, that she might neither see nor
hear more to vex her.
The party separated. The gentlemen had their own
pursuits, the ladies proceeded on their own business, and
they met no more while Anne belonged to them. She
was earnestly begged to return and dine, and give them
all the rest of the day ; but her spirits had been so long
exerted, that at present she felt unequal to more, and
fit only for home, where she might be sure of being as
silent as she chose.
Promising to be with them the whole of the following
morning, therefore, she closed the fatigues of the present,
by a toilsome walk to Camden-place, there to spend the
evening chiefly in listening to the busy arrangements of
Elizabeth and Mrs. Clay for the morrow's party, the
frequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the
continually improving detail of all the embellishments
which were to make it the most completely elegant of
its kind in Bath, while harassing herself in secret with
the never-ending question, of whether Captain Wentworth
would come or not ? They were reckoning him as certain,
but, with her, it was a gnawing solicitude never appeased
for five minutes together. She generally thought he would
come, because she generally thought he ought ; but it
was a case which she could not so shape into any positive
act of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the sug-
gestions of very opposite feelings.
She
( 228 )
She only roused herself from the broodings of this
restless agitation, to let Mrs. Clay know that she had
been seen with Mr. Elliot three hours after his being
supposed to be out of Bath ; for having watched in vain
for some intimation of the interview from the lady her-
self, she determined to mention it ; and it seemed to
her that there was guilt in Mrs. Clay's face as she listened.
It was transient, cleared away in an instant, but Anne
could imagine she read there the consciousness of having,
by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing
authority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half
an hour) to his lectures and restrictions on her designs
on Sir Walter. She exclaimed, however, with a very
tolerable imitation of nature,
" Oh dear ! very true. Only think, Miss Elliot, to my
great surprise I met with Mr. Elliot in Bath-street ! I was
never more astonished. He turned back and walked with
me to the Pump-yard. He had been prevented setting
off for Thornberry, but I really forget by what — for I was
in a hurry, and could not much attend, and I can only
answer for his being determined not to be delayed in his
return. He wanted to know how early he might be
admitted to-morrow. He was full of " to-morrow ; " and
it is very evident that I have been full of it too ever since
I entered the house, and learnt the extension of your
plan, and all that had happened, or my seeing him could
never have gone so entirely out of my head."
CHAP-
( 229 )
CHAPTER XI.
One day only had passed since Anne's conversation
with Mrs. Smith ; but a keener interest had succeeded,
and she was now so Httle touched by Mr. ElHot's conduct,
except by its effects in one quarter, that it became
a matter of course the next morning, still to defer her
explanatory visit in Rivers-street. She had promised to
be with the Musgroves from breakfast to dinner. Her
faith was plighted, and Mr. Elliot's character, like the
Sultaness Scheherazade's head, must live another day.
She could not keep her appointment punctually, how-
ever ; the weather was unfavourable, and she had grieved
over the rain on her friends' account, and felt it very
much on her own, before she was able to attempt the
walk. When she reached the White Hart, and made her
way to the proper apartment, .she found herself neither
arriving quite in time, nor the fkst to arrive. The party
before her were Mrs. Musgrove, talking to Mrs. Croft,
and Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth, and she
immediately heard that Mary and Henrietta, too im-
patient to wait, had gone out the moment it had cleared,
but would be back again soon, and that the strictest
injunctions had been left with Mrs. Musgrove, to keep
her there till they returned. She had only to submit, sit
down, be outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged
at once in all the agitations which she had merely laid
her account of tasting a little before the morning closed.
There was no delay, no waste of time. She was deep in
the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such
happiness, instantly. Two minutes after her entering the
room. Captain Wentworth said,
" We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville,
now, if you will give me materials."
Materials were all at hand, on a separate table; he
1781.6 J i went
( 230 )
went to it, and nearly turning his back on them all, was
engrossed by writing.
Mrs. Musgrove was giving Mrs. Croft the history of her
eldest daughter's engagement, and just in that incon-
venient tone of voice which was perfectly audible while
it pretended to be a whisper. Anne felt that she did not
belong to the conversation, and yet, as Captain Harville
seemed thoughtful and not disposed to talk, she could
not avoid hearing many undesirable particulars, such as
" how Mr. Musgrove and my brother Hayter had met
again and again to talk it over ; what my brother Hayter
had said one day, and what Mr. Musgrove had proposed
the next, and what had occurred to my sister Hayter,
and what the young people had wished, and what I said
at first I never could consent to, but was afterwards
persuaded to think might do very well," and a great
deal in the same style of open-hearted communication-^
Minutiae which, even with every advantage of taste and
delicacy which good Mrs. Musgrove could not give, could
be properly interesting only to the principals. Mrs. Croft
was attending with great good humour, and whenever
she spoke at all, it was very sensibly. Anne hoped the
gentlemen might each be too much self-occupied to hear.
" And so, ma'am, all these things considered," said
Mrs. Musgrove in her powerful whisper, " though we
could have wished it different, yet altogether we did not
think it fair to stand out any longer ; for Charles Hayter
was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near
as bad ; and so we thought they had better marry at
once, and make the best of it, as many others have done
before them. At any rate, said I, it will be better than
a long engagement."
" That is precisely what I was going to observe," cried
Mrs. Croft. " I would rather have young people settle
on a small income at once, and have to struggle with
a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long
engagement. I always think that no mutual — "
" Oh I dear Mrs. Croft," cried Mrs, Musgrove, unable to
let
( 231 )
let her finish her speech, " there is nothing I so abominate
for young people as a long engagement. It is what
I always protested against for my children. It is all very
well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if
there is a certainty of their being able to marry in six
months, or even in twelve, but a long engagement 1 "
'' Yes, dear ma'am," said Mrs. Croft, " or an uncertain
engagement ; an engagement which may be long. To
begin without knowing that at such a time there will be
the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and
unwise, and what, I think, all parents should prevent as
far as they can.**
Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt its
application to herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over
her, and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively
glanced towards the distant table, Captain Wentworth's
pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening,
and he turned round the next instant to give a look — one
quick, conscious look at her.
The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same
admitted truths, and enforce them with such examples
of the ill effect of a contrary practice, as had fallen within
their observation, but Anne heard nothing distinctly ; it
was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in
confusion.
Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none
of it, now left his seat, and moved to a window ; and
Anne seeming to watch him, though it was from thorough
absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was
inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at
her with a smile, and a little motion of the head, which
expressed, " Come to me, I have something to say ; "
and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which
denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he
really was, strongly enforced the invitation. She roused
herself and went to him. The window at which he stood,
was at the other end of the room from where the two
ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Went-
I i 2 worth's
( 232 )
worth's table, not very near. As she joined him, Captain
Harville's countenance reassumed the serious, thoughtful
expression which seemed its natural character.
*' Look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand,
and displaying a small miniature painting, " do you know
who that is ? "
*• Certainly, Captain Ben wick."
" Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But (in a deep
tone) it was not done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remem-
ber our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him ?
I little thought then — ^but no matter. This was drawn
at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist
at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my
poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her.
And I have now the charge of getting it properly set for
another ! It was a commission to me ! But who else
was there to employ ? I hope I can allow for him. I am
not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He under-,
takes it — (looking towards Captain Wentworth) he is
writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound
up the whole by adding, " Poor Fanny ! she would not
have forgotten him so soon ! "
" No," replied Anne, in a low feeling voice. " That,
I can easily believe."
" It was not in her nature. She doated on him."
" It would not be the nature of any woman who truly
loved."
Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, " Do you
claim that for your sex ? " and she answered the question,
smiling also, " Yes. We certainly do not forget you, so
soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather
than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at
home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us.
You are forced on exertion. You have always a profes-
sion, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you
back into the world immediately, and continual occupa-
tion and change soon weaken impressions."
*' (granting your assertion that the world does all this
so
( 233 )
so soon for men, (which, however, I do not think I shall
grant) it does not apply to Benwiek. He has not been
forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on
shore at the very moment, and he has been living with
us, in our little family- circle, ever since."
" True," said Anne, " very true ; I did not recollect ;
but what shall we say now. Captain Harville ? If the
change be not from outward circumstances, it must be
from within ; it must be nature, man's nature, which has
done the business for Captain Benwiek."
" No, no, it is not man's nature. I will not allow it
to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant
and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe
the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between our
bodily frames and our mental ; and that as our bodies
are the strongest, so are our feelings ; capable of
bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest
weather."
*' Your feelings may be the strongest," replied Anne,
*' but the same spirit of analogy will authorise me to
assert that ours are the most tender. Man is more robust
than woman, but he is not longer-lived ; which exactly
explains my view of the nature of their attachments.
Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise.
You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough
to struggle with. You are always labouring and toiling,
exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country,
friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life,
to be called your own. It would be too hard indeed "
(with a faltering voice) " if woman's feelings were to be
added to all this."
" We shall never agree upon this question " — Captain
Harville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called
their attention to Captain Wentworth's hitherto perfectly
quiet division of the room. It was nothing more than
that his pen had fallen down, but Anne was startled at
finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half
inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen, because
he
( 234 )
he had been occupied by them, striving to catch sounds,
which yet she did not think he could have caught.
" Have you finished your letter ? " said Captain Har-
ville.
" Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in
five minutes."
" There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready
whenever you are. — I am in very good anchorage here,"
(smiling at Anne) " well supplied, and want for nothing. —
No hurry for a signal at all. — Well, Miss Elliot," (lowering
his voice) " as I was saying, we shall never agree I suppose
upon this point. No man and woman would, probably.
But let me observe that all histories are against you, all
stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as
Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment
on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever
opened a book in my life which had not something to
say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all
talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say,
these were all written by men."
" Perhaps I shall. — Yes, yes, if you please, no reference
to examples in books. Men have had every advantage
of us in telling their own story. Education has been
theirs in so much higher a degree ; the pen has been
in their hands, I will not allow books to prove any
thing."
" But how shall we prove any thing ? "
" We never shall. We never can expect to prove any
thing upon such a point. It is a difference of opinion
which does not admit of proof. We each begin probably
with a little bias towards our own sex, and upon that
bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has
occurred within our own circle ; many of which circum-
stances (perhaps those very cases which strike us the
most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought forward
without betraying a confidence, or in some respect saying
what should not be said."
" Ah ! " cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong
feeHng,
( 235 )
feeling, " if I could but make you comprehend what
a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and
children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off
in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and
says, " God knows whether we ever meet again 1 " And
then, if I could convey to you the glow of his soul when
he does see them again ; when, coming back after a
twelvemonth's absence perhaps, and obliged to put into
another port, he calculates how soon it be possible to get
them there, pretending to deceive himself, and saying,
' They cannot be here till such a day,' but all the while
hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them
arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by
many hours sooner still ! If I could explain to you all
this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories
to do for the sake of these treasures of his existence !
I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts ! "
pressing his own with emotion.
" Oh ! " cried Anne eagerly, " I hope I do justice to
all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you.
God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful
feelings of any of my fellow-creatures. I should deserve
utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment
and constancy were known only by woman. No, I believe
you capable of every thing great and good in your married
lives. I believe you equal to every important exertion,
and to every domestic forbearance, so long as — if I may
be allowed the expression, so long as you have an object.
I mean, while the woman you love lives, and lives for
you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is
not a very enviable one, you need not covet it) is that
of loving longest, when existence or when hope is
I gone."
She could not immediately have uttered another sen-
tence ; her heart was too fvdl, her breath too much
oppressed.
" You are a good soul," cried Captain Harville, putting
his hand on her arm quite affectionately. " There is no
( 236 )
quarrelling vdth you. — And when I think of Benwick, my
tongue is tied."
Their attention was called towards the others. —
Mrs. Croft was taking leave.
" Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe,'*
said she. " I am going home, and you have an engage-
ment with your friend. — To-night we may have the
pleasure of all meeting again, at your party," (turning
to Anne.) " We had your sister's card yesterday, and
I understood Frederick had a card too, though I did not
see it — and you are disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as
well as ourselves ? "
Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great
haste, and either could not or would not answer fully.
" Yes," said he, *' very true ; here we separate, but
Harville and I shall soon be after you, that is, Harville,
if you are ready, I am in half a minute. I know you will
not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your service in half
a minute."
Mrs. Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having
sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready,
and had even a hurried, agitated air, which shewed
impatience to be gone. Anne knew not how to under-
stand it. She had the kindest " Good morning, God bless
you," from Captain Harville, but from him not a word,
nor a look. He had passed out of the room without
a look !
She had only time, however, to move closer to the
table where he had been writing, when footsteps were
heard returning ; the door opened ; it was himself. He
begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and
instantly crossing the room to the writing table, and
standing with his back towards Mrs. Musgrove, he drew
out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it
before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her
for a moment, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again
out of the room, almost before Mrs. Musgrove was aware
of his being in it — ^the work of an instant !
The
( 237 )
The revolution which one instant had made in Anne,
was almost beyond expression. The letter, with a direc-
tion hardly legible, to " Miss A. E. — ." was evidently the
one which he had been folding so hastily. While sup-
posed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had
been also addressing her ! On the contents of that letter
depended all which this world could do for her ! Any
thing was possible, any thing might be defied rather than
suspense. Mrs. Musgrove had little arrangements of her
own at her own table ; to their protection she must trust,
and sinking into the chair which he had occupied, suc-
ceeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written,
her eyes devoured the following words :
" I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to
' you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce
' my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not
' that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone
' for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even
' more your own, than when you almost broke it eight
' years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets
' sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death.
' I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been,
' weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.
' You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone
' I think and plan. — Have you not seen this ? Can you
' fail to have understood my wishes ? — I had not waited
' even these ten days, could I have read your feelings,
' as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can
' hardly write. I am every instant hearing something
' which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can
' distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would
' be lost on others. — Too good, too excellent creature !
' You do us justice indeed. You do believe that there
' is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe
' it to be most fervent, most undeviating in
"F. W."
" I must go, uncertain of my fate ; but I shall return
' hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible.
"A word.
( 238 )
" A word, a look will be enough to decide whether I enter
" your father's house this evening, or never."
Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half
an hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized
her ; but the ten minutes only, which now passed before
she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her situation,
could do nothing towards tranquillity. Every moment
rather brought fresh agitation. It was an overpowering
happiness. And before she was beyond the first stage of
full sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in.
The absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced
then an immediate struggle ; but after a while she could
do no more. She began not to understand a word they
said, and was obliged to plead indisposition and excuse
herself. They could then see that she looked very ill —
were shocked and concerned — and would not stir without
her for the world. This was dreadful ! Would they only
have gone away, and left her in the quiet possession of
that room, it would have been her cure ; but to have
them all standing or waiting around her was distracting,
and, in desperation, she said she would go home,
" By all means, my dear," cried Mrs. Musgrove, " go
home directly and take care of yourself, that you may
be fit for the evening. I wish Sarah was here to doctor
you, but I am no doctor myself. Charles, ring and order
a chair. She must not walk."
But the chair would never do. Worse than all ! To
lose the possibility of speaking two words to Captain
Wentworth in the course of her quiet, solitary progress
up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him)
could not be borne. The chair was earnestly protested
against ; and Mrs. Musgrove, who thought only of one
sort of illness, having assured herself, with some anxiety,
that there had been no fall in the case ; that Anne had
not, at any time lately, slipped down, and got a blow on
her head ; that she was perfectly convinced of having
had no fall, could part with her cheerfully, and depend
on finding her better at night.
Anxious
1
( 239 )
Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled,
and said,
" I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly under-
stood. Pray be so good as to mention to the other
gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party this
evening. I am afraid there has been some mistake ; and
I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville, and
Captain Wentworth, that we hope to see them both."
" Oh ! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my
word. Captain Harville has no thought but of going."
" Do you think so ? But I am afraid ; and I should
be so very sorry ! Will you promise me to mention it,
when you see them again ? You will see them both
again this morning, I dare say. Do promise me."
" To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see
Captain Harville any where, remember to give Miss
Anne's message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be
uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged,
I'll answer for it ; and Captain Wentworth the same,
I dare say."
Anne could do no more ; but her heart prophesied
some mischance, to damp the perfection of her felicity.
It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did
not come to Camden-place himself, it would be in her
power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville.
Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his
real concern and good-nature, would go home with her ;
there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel I
But she could not be long ungrateful ; he was sacrificing
an engagement at a gunsmith's to be of use to her ;
and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude
apparent.
They were in Union-street, when a quicker step behind,
,; a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments
I^ft preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He
^^ joined them ; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to
pass on, said nothing — only looked. Anne could com-
Imand herself enough to receive that look, and not repul-
sively.
( 240 )
sively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed,
and the movements which had hesitated were decided.
He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden
thought, Charles said,
" Captain Wentworth, which way are you going ? only
to Gay-street, or farther up the town ? *'
" I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, sur-
prised.
" Are you going as high as Belmont ? Are you going
near Camden-place ? Because if you are, I shall have no
scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne
your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for
this morning, and must not go so far without help. And
I ought to be at that fellow's in the market-place. He
promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going
to send off ; said he would keep it unpacked to the last
possible moment, that I might see it ; and if I do not
turn back now, I have no chance. By his description,
a good deal like the second-sized double-barrel of mine,
which you shot with one day, round Winthrop."
There could not be an objection. There could be only
a most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for
public view ; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in
private rapture. In half a minute, Charles was at the
bottom of Union-street again, and the other two pro-
ceeding together ; and soon words enough had passed
between them to decide their direction towards the com-
paratively quiet and retired gravel-walk, where the power
of conversation would make the present hour a blessing
, indeed ; and prepare for it all the immortality which the
happiest recollections of their own future lives could
bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and
those promises which had once before seemed to secure
every thing, but which had been followed by so many,
many years of division and estrangement. There they
f returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy,
\ perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first
\, projected ; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a know-
^ ledge
( 241 )
ledge of each other's character, truth, and attachment ;
more equal to act, more justified in acting. And there,
as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every
group around them, seeing neither sauntering politicians,
bustling house-keepers, flirting girls, nor nursery-maids
and children, they could indulge in those retrospections
and acknowledgments, and especially in those explana-
tions of what had directly preceded the present moment,
which were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest. All
the little variations of the last week were gone through ;
and of yesterday and to-day there could scarcely be
an end.
She had not mistaken him. Jealousy of Mr. Elliot had
been the retarding weight, the doubt, the torment. That
had begun to operate in the very hour of first meeting
her in Bath ; that had returned, after a short suspension,
to ruin the concert ; and that had influenced him in
every thing he had said and done, or omitted to say and^
do, in the last four-and- twenty hours. It had been 1
gradually yielding to the better hopes which her looks, \
or words, or actions occasionally encouraged ; it had been \
vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones \
which had reached him while she talked with Captain.- — 1
Harville ; and under the irresistible governance of wiiich
he had seized a sheet of paper, and poured out his feelings.
Of what he had then written, nothing was to be
retracted or qualified. He persisted in having loved none
but her. She had never been supplanted. He never even
believed himself to see her equal. Thus much indeed he
was obliged to acknowledge — that he had been constant
unconsciously, nay unintentionally ; that he had meant
to forget her, and believed it to be done. He had imagined
himself indifferent, when he had only been angry ; and
he had been unjust to her merits, because he had been
a sufferer from them. Her character was now fixed on
his mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest
medium of fortitude and gentleness ; but he was obliged
to acknowledge that only at Uppercross had he learnt to
do
( J242 )
do her justice, and only at Lyme had he begun to under-
stand himself.
At Lyme, he had received lessons of more than one
sort. The passing admiration of Mr. Elliot had at least
roused him, and the scenes on the Cobb, and at Captain
Harville's, had fixed her superiority.
In his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa
Musgrove (the attempts of angry pride), he protested that
he had for ever felt it to be impossible ; that he had not
cared, could not care for Louisa ; though, till that day,
till the leisure for reflection which followed it, he had not
understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which
Louisa's could so ill bear a comparison ; or the perfect,
unrivalled hold it possessed over his own. There, he had
I learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of principle
• and the obstinacy of self-will, between the darings of
heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind.
There, he had seen every thing to exalt in his estimation
the woman he had lost, and there begun to deplore the
pride, the folly, the madness of resentment, which had
kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in
his way.
From that period his penance had become severe. He
had no sooner been free from the horror and remorse
attending the first few days of Louisa's accident, no
sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he had
begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.
" I found," said he, " that I was considered by Harville
an engaged man ! That neither Harville nor his wife
entertained a doubt of our mutual attachment. I was
startled and shocked. To a degree, I could contradict
this instantly ; but, when I began to reflect that others
might have felt the same — her own family, nay, perhaps
herself, I was no longer at my own disposal. I was hers
in honour if she wished it. I had been unguarded. I had
not thought seriously on this subject before. I had not
considered that my excessive intimacy must have its
danger of ill consequence in many ways ; and that I had
no
( 243 )
no right to be trying whether I could attach myself to
either of the girls, at the risk of raising even an unpleasant
report, were there no other ill effects. I had been grossly
wrong, and must abide the consequences."
He found too late, in short, that he had entangled
himself; and that precisely as he became fully satisfied
of his not caring for Louisa at all, he must regard himself
as bound to her, if her sentiments for him were what the
Harvilles supposed. It determined him to leave Lyme,
and await her complete recovery elsewhere. He would
gladly weaken, by any fair means, whatever feelings or
speculations concerning him might exist ; and he went,
therefore, to his brother's, meaning after a while to return
to Kellynch, and act as circumstances might require.
" I was six weeks with Edward," said he, " and saw
him happy. I could have no other pleasure. I deserved
none. He enquired after you very particularly ; asked
even if you were personally altered, little suspecting that
to my eye you could never alter.*'
Anne smiled, and let it pass. It was too pleasing
a blunder for a reproach. It is something for a woman
to be assured, in her eight-and-twentieth year, that she
has not lost one charm of earlier youth : but the value
of such homage was inexpressibly increased to Anne, by
comparing it with former words, and feeling it to be the
result, not the cause of a revival of his warm attachment.
He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindnessX
of his own pride, and the blunders of his own calculations, \
till at once released from Louisa by the astonishing and j
felicitous intelligence of her engagement with Benwick. y
" Here," said he, " ended the worst of my state ; for
now I could at least put myself in the way of happiness,
I could exert myself, I could do something. But to be
waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for evil, had
been dreadful. Within the first five minutes I said,
* I will be at Bath on Wednesday,' and I was. Was it
unpardonable to think it worth my while to come ? and
to arrive with some degree of hope ? You were single.
It
( 244 )
It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the
past, as I did ; and one encouragement happened to be
mine. I could never doubt that you would be loved and
sought by others, but I knew to a certainty that you had
refused one man at least, of better pretensions than
myself: and I could not help often saying, Was this
for me ? "
Their first meeting in Milsom-street afforded much to
be said, but the concert still more. That evening seemed
to be made up of exquisite moments. The moment of
her stepping forward in the octagon-room to speak to
him, the moment of Mr. EUiot's appearing and tearing
her away, and one or two subsequent moments, marked
by returning hope or increasing despondence, were dwelt
on with energy.
" To see you," cried he, " in the midst of those who
could not be my well-wishers, to see your cousin close by
you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the horrible
eligibilities and proprieties of the match ! To consider it
as the certain wish of every being who could hope to
influence you ! Even, if your own feelings were reluctant
or indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would
be his ! Was it not enough to make the fool of me which
I appeared ? How could I look on without agony ? Was
not the very sight of the friend who sat behind you, was
not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of
her influence, the indelible, immoveable impression of
what persuasion had once done — was it not all against
me?"
'' You should have distinguished," replied Anne. " You
should not have suspected me now ; the case so different,
and my age so different. If I was wrong in yielding to
persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion
exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. W^hen I yielded,
I thought it was to duty ; but no duty could be called
in aid here. In marrying a man indifferent to me, all
risk would have been incurred, and all duty violated."
" Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus," he replied,
"but
I
( 245 )
" but I could not. I could not derive benefit from the
late knowledge I had acquired of your character. I could
not bring it into play : it was overwhelmed, buried, lost
in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under
year after year. I could think of you only as one who had
yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced
by any one rather than by me. I saw you with the very
person who had guided you in that year of misery. I had
no reason to believe her of less authority now. — The force
of habit was to be added."
" I should have thought," said Anne, " that my manner
to yourself might have spared you much or all of this."
" No, no ! your manner might be only the ease which
your engagement to another man would give. I left you
in this belief; and yet — I was determined to see you
again. My spirits rallied with the morning, and I felt
that I had still a motive for remaining here."
At last Anne was at home again, and happier than any
one in that house could have conceived. All the surprise
and suspense, and every other painful part of the morning
dissipated by this conversation, she re-entered the house
so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some
momentary apprehensions of its being impossible to last.
An interval of meditation, serious and grateful, was the
best corrective of every thing dangerous in such high-
wrought felicity ; and she went to her room, and grew
steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her enjoy-
ment.
The evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up,
the company assembled. It was but a card-party, it was
but a mixture of those who had never met before, and
those who met too often — a common-place business, too
numerous for intimacy, too small for variety ; but Anne
had never found an evening shorter. Glowing and lovely
in sensibility and happiness, and more generally admired
than she thought about or cared for, she had cheerful
or forbearing feelings for every creature around her.
Mr. Elliot was there ; she avoided, but she could pity
1781.5 Kk him.
( ^4^6 )
him. The Wallises ; she had amusement in understanding
them. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret ; they would
soon be innoxious cousins to her. She cared not for
Mrs. Clay, and had nothing to blush for in the public
manners of her father and sister. With the Musgroves,
there was the happy chat of perfect ease ; with Captain
Harville, the kind-hearted intercourse of brother and
sister ; with Lady Russell, attempts at conversation,
which a delicious consciousness cut short ; with Admiral
and Mrs. Croft, every thing of peculiar cordiality and
fervent interest, which the same consciousness sought to
conceal ; — and with Captain Wentworth, some moments
of communication continually occurring, and always the
hope of more, and always the knowledge of his being there !
It was in one of these short meetings, each apparently
occupied in admiring a fine display of green-house plants,
that she said — -
" I have been thinking over the past, and trying
impartially to judge of the right and wrong, I mean with
regard to myself; and I must believe that I was right,
much as I suffered from it, that I was perfectly right in
being guided by the friend whom you will love better
than you do now. To me, she was in the place of a parent.
Do not mistake me, however. I am not saying that she
did not err in her advice. It was, perhaps, one of those
cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event
decides ; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any
circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice.
But I mean, that I was right in submitting to her, and
that if I had done otherwise, I should have suffered more
in continuing the engagement than I did even in giving
it up, because I should have suffered in my conscience.
I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in
human nature, nothing to reproach myself with ; and if
I mistake not, a strong sense of duty is no bad part
of a woman's portion.'*
He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking
again at her, replied, as if in cool deliberation,
" Not
( 247 )
" Not yet. But there are hopes of her being forgiven
in time. I trust to being in charity with her soon. But
I too have been thinking over the past, and a question
has suggested itself, whether there may not have been
one person more my enemy even than that lady ? My
own self. Tell me if, when I returned to England in the
year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and was posted
into the Laconia, if I had then written to you, would
you have answered my letter ? would you, in short, have
renewed the engagement then ? "
" Would I ! " was all her answer ; but the accent was
decisive enough.
" Good God ! " he cried, " you would ! It is not that
I did not think of it, or desire it, as what could alone
crown all my other success. But I was proud, too proud
to ask again. I did not understand you. I shut my
eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice.
This is a recollection which ought to make me forgive
every one sooner than myself. vSix years of separation
and suffering might have been spared. It is a sort of
pain, too, which is new to me. I have been used to the
gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing
that I enjoyed. I have valued myself on honourable toils
and just rewards. Like other great men under reverses,'*
he added with a smile, " I must endeavour to subdue my
mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier
than I deserve."
Kk2 CHAP-
(
( 248 )
CHAPTER XII.
Who can be in doubt of what followed ? When any
two young people take it into their heads to marry, they
are pretty sure by perseverance to carry their point, be
they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little
likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort.
This may be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe
it to be truth ; and if such parties succeed, how should
a Captain Wentworth and an Anne Elliot, with the
advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness of right,
and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing
down every opposition ? They might in fact have borne
down a great deal more than they met with, for there was
little to distress them beyond the want of graciousness
and warmth. — Sir Walter made no objection, and Eliza-
beth did nothing worse than look cold and unconcerned.
Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand
pounds, and as high in his profession as merit and activity
could place him, was no longer nobody. He was now
esteemed quite worthy to address the daughter of a foolish,
spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle or sense
enough to maintain himself in the situation in which
Providence had placed him, and who could give his
daughter at present but a small part of the share of ten
"thousand pounds which must be hers hereafter.
Sir Walter indeed, though he had no affection for Anne,
and no vanity flattered, to make him really happy on
the occasion, was very far from thinking it a bad match
for her. On the contrary, when he saw more of Captain
Wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight and eyed
him well, he was very much struck by his personal claims,
and felt that his superiority of appearance might be not
unfairly balanced against her superiority of rank ; and
all this, assisted by his well-sounding name, enabled Sir
Walter
( 249 )
Walter at last to prepare his pen with a very good grace
for the insertion of the marriage in the volume of honour.
The only one among them, whose opposition of feehng
could excite any serious anxiety, was Lady Russell. Anne
knew that Lady Russell must be suffering some pain in
understanding and relinquishing Mr. Elliot, and be making
some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do
justice to Captain Wentworth. This however was what^^
Lady Russell had now to do. She must learn to feel that^
she had been mistaken with regard to both ; that she- /
had been unfairly influenced by appearances in each ;/
that because Captain Wentworth's manners had not suited
her own ideas, she had been too quick in suspecting them y
to indicate a character of dangerous impetuosity ; and (
that because Mr. ElUot's manners had precisely pleased "X
her in their propriety and correctness, their general polite- /
ness and suavity, she had been too quick in receiving ^
them ^ as the certain result of the most correct opinions
and Avell regulated mind. There was nothing less for
Lady Russell to do, than to admit that she had been
pretty completely wrong, and to take up a new set of
opinions and of hopes.
There is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety
in the discernment of character, a natural penetration, in
short, which no experience in others can equal, and Lady y
Russell had been less gifted in this part of understanding C
than her young friend. But she was a very good woman, S
and if her second object was to be sensible and well-
judging, her first was to see Anne happy. She loved Anne
better than she loved her own abilities ; and when the
awkwardness of the beginning was over, found little hard-
ship in attaching herself as a mother to the man who was
securing the happiness of her other child.
Of all the family, Mary was probably the one most
immediately gratified by the circumstance. It was credit-
able to have a sister married, and she might flatter herself
with having been greatly instrumental to the connexion,
by keeping Anne with her in the autumn ; and as her
own
( 250 )
own sister must be better than her husband's sisters, it
was very agreeable that Captain Wentworth should be
a richer man than either Captain Benwick or Charles
Hayter. — She had something to suffer perhaps when they
came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the
rights of seniority, and the mistress of a very pretty
landaulette ; but she had a future to look forward to,
of powerful consolation. Anne had no Uppercross-hall
before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family ;
and if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from
being made a baronet, she would not change situations
with Anne.
It would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally
satisfied with her situation, for a change is not very
probable there. She had soon the mortification of seeing
Mr. Elliot withdraw ; and no one of proper condition has
since presented himself to raise even the unfounded hopes
which sunk with him.
The news of his cousin Anne's engagement burst on
Mr. Elliot most unexpectedly. It deranged his best plan
of domestic happiness, his best hope of keeping Sir Walter
single by the watchfulness which a son-in-law's rights
would have given. But, though discomfited and dis-
appointed, he could still do something for his own interest
and his own enjoyment. He soon quitted Bath ; and on
Mrs. Clay's quitting it likewise soon afterwards, and being
next heard of as established under his protection in
London, it was evident how double a game he had been
playing, and how determined he was to save himself from
being cut out by one artful woman, at least.
Mrs. Clay's affections had overpowered her interest,
and she had sacrificed, for the young man's sake, the
possibiUty of scheming longer for Sir Walter. She has
abilities, however, as well as affections ; and it is now
a doubtful point whether his cunning, or hers, may finally
carry the day ; whether, after preventing her from being
the wife of Sir Walter, he may not be wheedled and
caressed at last into making her the wife of Sir William.
( 251 )
It cannot be doubted that Sir Waltier and Elizabeth
were shocked and mortified by the loss of their companion,
and the discovery of their deception in her. They had
their great cousins, to be sure, to resort to for comfort ;
but they must long feel that to flatter and follow others,
without being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state
of half enjoyment.
Anne, satisfied at a very early period of Lady Russell's
meaning to love Captain Wentworth as she ought, had
no other alloy to the happiness of her prospects than
what arose from the consciousness of having no relations
to bestow on him which a man of sense could value.
There she felt her own inferiority keenly. The dispro-
portion in their fortune was nothing ; it did not give her
a moment's regret ; but to have no family to receive and
estimate him properly ; nothing of respectability, of har-
mony, of good-will to offer in return for all the worth
and all the prompt welcome which met her in his brothers
and sisters, was a source of as lively pain as her mind
could well be sensible of, under circumstances of other-
wise strong felicity. She had but two friends in the world
to add to his list. Lady Russell and Mrs. Smith. To
those, however, he was very well disposed to attach him-
self. Lady Russell, in spite of all her former transgres-
sions, he could now value from his heart. While he was
not obliged to say that he believed her to have been right
in originally dividing them, he was ready to say almost
every thing else in her favour ; and as for Mrs. Smith,
she had claims of various kinds to recommend her quickly
and permanently.
Her recent good offices by Anne had been enough in
themselves ; and their marriage, instead of depriving her
of one friend, secured her two. She was their earliest
visitor in their settled life ; and Captain Wentworth, by
putting her in the way of recovering her husband's pro-
perty in the West Indies ; by writing for her, acting for
her, and seeing her through all the petty difficulties of
the case, with the activity and exertion of a fearless man
and
( 252 )
and a determined friend, fully requited the services which
she had rendered, or ever meant to render, to his wife.
Mrs. Smith's enjoyments were not spoiled by this
improvement of income, with some improvement of
health, and the acquisition of such friends to be often
with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not
fail her ; and while these prime supplies of good remained,
she might have bid defiance even to greater accessions
of worldly prosperity. She might have been absolutely
rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be happy. Her spring
of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her friend
Anne's was in the warmth of her heart. Anne was
tenderness itself, and she had the full worth of it in
Captain Wentworth's affection. His profession was all
that could ever make her friends wish that tenderness
less ; the dread of a future war all that could dim her
sunshine. She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she
must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that
profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its
domestic virtues than in its national importance.
TSE ENt).
Z^-. V
( 253 )
From the Second Edition (1871) of
A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN
By her Nephew
J. E. AUSTEN LEIGH
Tlie Cancelled Chapter {Chap. X.) of " Persuasion ".*
With all this knowledge of Mr. Elliot and this authority
to impart it, Anne left Westgate Buildings, her mind
deeply busy in revolving what she had heard, feeling,
thinking, recalling, and foreseeing everything, shocked
at Mr. Elliot, sighing over future Kellynch, and pained
for Lady Russell, whose confidence in him had been
entire. The embarrassment which must be felt from this
hour in his presence ! How to behave to him ? How to
get rid of him ? What to do by any of the party at
home ? Where to be blind ? Where to be active ? It
was altogether a confusion of images and doubts —
a perplexity, an agitation which she could not see the end
of. And she was in Gay Street, and still so much engrossed
that she started on being addressed by Admiral Croft,
as if he were a person unlikely to be met there. It was
within a few steps of his own door.
" You are going to call upon my wife," said he. " She
will be very glad to see you."
Anne denied it.
'' No ! she really had not time, she was in her way
home ; " but while she spoke the Admiral had stepped
back and knocked at the door, calling out,
" Yes, yes; do go in; she is all alone ; go in and rest
yourself."
* *• Chap. X." was of course to have been the tenth of the second
volume.
Anne
( 254 )
Anne felt so little disposed at this time to be in company
of any sort, that it vexed her to be thus constrained,
but she was obliged to stop.
"Since you are so very kind," said she, *'I will just ask
Mrs. Croft how she does, but I really cannot stay five
minutes. You are sure she is quite alone ? "
The possibility of Captain Wentworth had occurred ;
and most fearfully anxious was she to be assured — either
that he was within, or that he was not — which might
have been a question.
" Oh yes ! quite alone, nobody but her mantuamaker
with her, and they have been shut up together this half-
hour, so it must be over soon."
" Her mantuamaker ! Then I am sure my calling now
would be most inconvenient. Indeed you must allow me
to leave my card and be so good as to explain it afterwards
to Mrs. Croft."
" No, no, not at all — not at all — she will be very happy
to see you. Mind, I will not swear that she has not
something particular to say to you, but that will all come
out in the right place. I give no hints. Why, Miss Elliot,
we begin to hear strange things of you (smiling in her face).
But you have not much the look of it, as grave as a little
judge ! "
Anne blushed.
"Aye, aye, that will do now, it is all right. I thought
we were not mistaken."
She was left to guess at the direction of his suspicions ;
the first wild idea had been of some disclosure from his
brother-in-law, but she was ashamed the next moment,
and felt how far more probable it was that he should be
meaning Mr. Elliot. The door was opened, and the man
evidently beginning to deny his mistress, when the sight
of his master stopped him. The Admiral enjoyed the
joke exceedingly. Anne thought his triumph over
Stephen rather too long. At last, however, he was able
to invite her up stairs, and stepping before her said,
"I will just go up with you myself and show you in.
I cannot
( 255 )
I cannot stay because I must go to the Post-Office, but
if you will only sit down for five minutes I am sure
Sophy will come, and you will find nobody to disturb
you — there is nobody but Frederick here," opening the
door as he spoke. Such a person to be passed over as
nobody to her ! After being allowed to feel quite secure,
indifferent, at her ease, to have it burst on her that she
was to be the next moment in the same room with him !
No time for recollection ! for planning behaviour or
regulating manners ! There was time only to turn pale
before she had passed through the door, and met the
astonished eyes of Captain Wentworth, who was sitting
by the fire, pretending to read, and prepared for no
greater surprise than the Admiral's hasty return.
Equally unexpected was the meeting on each side.
There was nothing to be done, however, but to stifle
feelings, and to be quietly polite, and the Admiral was
too much on the alert to leave any troublesome pause.
He repeated again what he had said before about his
wife and everybody, insisted on Anne's sitting down and
being perfectly comfortable — was sorry he must leave
her himself, but was sure Mrs. Croft would be down very
soon, and would go upstairs and give her notice directly.
Anne was sitting down, but now she arose, again to
entreat him not to interrupt Mrs. Croft and re-urge the
wish of going away and calling another time. But the
Admiral would not hear of it ; and if she did not return
to the charge with unconquerable perseverance, or did
not with a more passive determination walk quietly out
of the room (as certainly she might have done), may she
not be pardoned ? If she had no horror of a few minutes'
tete-a-tete with Captain Wentworth, may she not be
pardoned for not wishing to give him the idea that she
had ? She reseated herself, and the Admiral took leave,
but on reaching the door, said —
" Frederick, a word with you if you please."
Captain Wentworth went to him, and instantly, before
they were well out of the room, the Admiral continued —
"As
( 256 )
"As I am going to leave you together, it is but fair
I should give you something to talk of ; and so, if you
please "
Here the door was very firmly closed, she could guess
by which of the two — and she lost entirely what immedi-
ately followed, but it was impossible for her not to
distinguish parts of the rest, for the Admiral, on the
strength of the door's being shut, was speaking without
any management of voice, though she could hear his
companion trying to check him. She could not doubt
their being speaking of her. She heard her own name
and Kellynch repeatedly. She was very much disturbed.
She knew not what to do, or what to expect, and among
other agonies felt the possibility of Captain Went worth's
not returning into the room at all, which, after her
consenting to stay, would have been — too bad for
language. They seemed to be talking of the Admiral's
lease of Kellynch. She heard him say something of the
lease being signed — or not signed — that was not likely
to be a very agitating subject, but then followed —
" I hate to be at an uncertainty. I must know at once.
Sophy thinks the same."
Then in a lower tone Captain Wentworth seemed
remonstrating, wanting to be excused, wanting to put
something off.
"Phoo, phoo," answered the Admiral, "now is the time j
if you will not speak, I will stop and speak myself."
" Very well, sir, very well, sir," followed with some
impatience from his companion, opening the door as
he spoke —
"You will then, you promise you will?" repHed the
Admiral in all the power of his natural voice, unbroken
even by one thin door.
" Yes, sir, yes." And the Admiral was hastily left, the
door was closed, and the moment arrived in which Anne
was alone with Captain Wentworth.
She could not attempt to see how he looked, but he
walked immediately to a window as if irresolute and
embarrassed,
I
( 257 )
embarrassed, and for about the space of five seconds she
repented what she had done — censured it as unwise,
blushed over it as indelicate. She longed to be able to
speak of the weather or the concert, but could only
compass the relief of taking a newspaper in her hand.
The distressing pause was over, however ; he turned
round in half a minute, and coming towards the table
where she sat, said in a voice of effort and constraint —
"You must have heard too much already, Madam,
to be in any doubt of my having promised Admiral
Croft to speak to you on a particular subject, and this
conviction determines me to do so, however repugnant
to my — to all my sense of propriety to be taking so great
a libert}^ ! You will acquit me of impertinence I trust,'
by considering me as speaking only for another, and
speaking by necessity ; and the Admiral is a man who
can never be thought impertinent by one who knows
him as you do. His intentions are always the kindest
and the best, and you will perceive he is actuated by none
other in the application which I am now, with — with
very peculiar feelings — obliged to make." He stopped,
but merely to recover breath, not seeming to expect any
answer. Anne listened as if her life depended on the
issue of his speech. He proceeded with a forced alacrity: —
" The Admiral, Madam, was this morning confidently
informed that you were — upon my soul, I am quite at
a loss, ashamed (breathing and speaking quickly) — the
awkwardness of giving information of this kind to one
of the parties — you can be at no loss to understand me.
It was very confidently said that Mr. Elliot — that
everything was settled in the family for a union between
Mr. Elliot and yourself. It was added that you were to
live at Kellynch — that Kellynch was to be given up.
This the Admiral knew could not be correct. But it
occurred to him that it might be the wish of the parties.
And my commission from him. Madam, is to say, that
if the family wish is such, his lease of Kellynch shall be
cancelled, and he and my sister will provide themselves
with
( 258 )
with another home, without imagining themselves to
be doing anything which under similar circumstances
would not be done for them. This is all, Madam. A very
few words in reply from you will be sufficient. That
/ should be the person commissioned on this subject is
extraordinary ! and believe me. Madam, it is no less
painful. A very few words, however, will put an end to
the awkwardness and distress we may both be feeling."
Anne spoke a word or two, but they were unintelligible ;
and before she could command herself, he added, " If
you will only tell me that the Admiral may address a line
to Sir Walter, it will be enough. Pronounce only the
words, he may, and I shall immediately follow him with
your message."
"No, Sir," said Anne; "there is no message. You are
mi sin — the Admiral is misinformed. I do justice to the
kindness of his intentions, but he is quite mistaken.
There is no truth in any such report."
He was a moment silent. She turned her eyes towards
him for the first time since his re-entering the room. His
colour was varying, and he was looking at her -svith all
the power and keenness which she believed no other
eyes than his possessed.
" No truth in any such report ? " he repeated. " No
truth in any part of it ? "
^ None."
He had been standing by a chair, enjoying the relief
of leaning on it, or of playing with it. He now sat down,
drew it a little nearer to her, and looked with an expression
which had something more than penetration in it —
something softer. Her countenance did not discourage.
It was a silent but a very powerful dialogue; on his
supplication, on hers acceptance. Still a little nearer,
and a hand taken and pressed ; and "Anne, my own dear
Anne ! " bursting forth in all the fulness of exquisite
feeling, — and all suspense and indecision were over.
They were re-united. They were restored to all that had
been lost. They were carried back to the past with only
an
( 259 )
an increase of attachment and confidence, and only
such a flutter of present delight as made them little fit
for the interruption of Mrs. Croft when she joined them
not long afterwards. She, probably, in the observations
of the next ten minutes saw something to suspect ; and
though it was hardly possible for a woman of her descrip-
tion to wish the mantuamaker had imprisoned her longer,
she might be very likely wishing for some excuse to run
about the house, some storm to break the windows
above, or a summons to the Admiral's shoemaker below.
Fortune favoured them all, however, in another way,
in a gentle, steady r^in, just happily set in as the Admiral
returned and Anne rose to go. She was earnestly invited
to stay dinner. A note was despatched to Camden Place,
and she staid — staid till ten at night ; and during that
time the husband and wife, either by the wife's contrivance,
or by simply going on in their usual way, were frequently
out of the room together — gone upstairs to hear a noise,
or downstairs to settle their accounts, or upon the landing
to trim the lamp. And these precious moments were
turned to so good an account that all the most anxious
feelings of the past were gone through. Before they
parted at night, Anne had the felicity of being assured
that in the first place (so far from being altered for the
worse), she had gained inexpressibly in personal loveliness ;
and that as to character, hers was now fixed on his mind
as perfection itself, maintaining the just medium of
fortitude and gentleness — that he had never ceased to
love and prefer her, though it had been only at Uppercross
that he had learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme
that he had begun to understand his own feelings ; that
at Lyme he had received lessons of more than one kind —
the passing admiration of Mr. Elliot had at least roused
him, and the scene on the Cobb, and at Captain Harville's,
had fixed her superiority. In his preceding attempts
to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove (the attempts of
anger and pique), he protested that he had continually
felt the impossibility of really caring for Louisa, though
tiU
( 260 )
till that day, till the leisure for reflection which followed it,
he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind
with which Louisa's could so ill bear comparison ; or the
perfect, the unrivalled hold it possessed over his own.
There he had learnt to distinguish between the steadiness
of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the
darings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected
mind ; there he had seen everything to exalt in his
estimation the woman he had lost, and there had begun
to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment,
which had kept him from trying to regain her when
thrown in his way. From that period to the present
had his penance been the most severe. He had no
sooner been free from the horror and remorse attending
the first few days of Louisa's accident, no sooner had
begun to feel himself alive again, than he had begun to
feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.
He found that he was considered by his friend Harville
an engaged man. The Harvilles entertained not a doubt
of a mutual attachment between him and Louisa ; and
though this to a degree was contradicted instantly, it
yet made him feel that perhaps by her family, by every-
body, by herself even, the same idea might be held, and
that he was not free in honour, though if such were to
be the conclusion, too free alas ! in heart. He had never
thought justly on this subject before, and he had not
sufficiently considered that his excessive intimacy at
Uppercross must have its danger of ill consequence in
many ways ; and that while trying whether he could
attach himself to either of the girls, he might be exciting
unpleasant reports if not raising unrequited regard.
He found too late that he had entangled himself, and
that precisely as he became thoroughly satisfied of his
not caring for Louisa at all, he must regard himself as
bound to her if her feelings for him were what the Har-
villes supposed. It determined him to leave Lyme, and
await her perfect recovery elsewhere. He would gladly
weaken by any fair means whatever sentiment or specula-
tions
( 261 )
tions concerning them might exist ; and he went therefore
into Shropshire, meaning after a while to return to the
Crofts at Kellynch, and act as he found requisite.
He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindness
of his own pride and the blunders of his own calculations,
till at once released from Louisa by the astonishing
felicity of her engagement with Benwick.
Bath — Bath had instantly followed in thought, and not
long after in fact. To Bath — to arrive with hope, to be
torn by jealousy at the first sight of Mr. Elliot ; to experi-
ence all the changes of each at the concert ; to be miserable
by the morning's circumstantial report, to be now more
happy than language could express, or any heart but his
own be capable of.
He was very eager and very delightful in the description
of what he had felt at the concert ; the evening seemed
to have been made up of exquisite moments. The moment
of her stepping forward in the octagon room to speak to
him, the moment of Mr. Elliot's appearing and tearing
her away, and one or two subsequent moments, marked
by returning hope or increasing despondency, were dwelt
on with energy.
" To see you," cried he, " in the midst of those who
could not be my well-wishers ; to see your cousin close
by you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the horrible
eligibilities and proprieties of the match ! To consider
it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to
influence you ! Even if your own feelings were reluctant
or indifferent, to consider what powerful support would
be his ! Was it not enough to make the fool of me which
I appeared ? How could I look on without agony ? Was
not the very sight of the friend who sat behind you ; was
not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of
her influence, the indelible, immovable impression of
what persuasion had once done — was it not all against
me?"
" You should have distinguished," replied Anne. " You
rjshould not have suspected me now ; the case so different,
""•5 L 1 and
( 262 )
and my age so different. If I was wrong in yielding to
persuasion once, remember it was to persuasion exerted
on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I
thought it was to duty ; but no duty could be called in
aid here. In marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk
would have been incurred, and all duty violated.*'
"Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus," he replied;
"but I could not. I could not derive benefit from the
late knowledge I had acquired of your character. I could
not bring it into play ; it was overwhelmed, buried, lost
in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under
year after year. I could think of you only as one who
had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced
by anyone rather than by me. I saw you with the very
person who had guided you in that year of misery. I had
no reason to believe her of less authority now. The
force of habit was to be added."
" I should have thought," said Anne, *' that my manner
to yourself might have spared you much or all of this."
"No, no! Your manner might be only the ease which
your engagement to another man would give. I left you
in this belief; and yet — I was determined to see you
again. My spirits rallied with the morning, and I felt
that I had still a motive for remaining here. The Admiral's
news, indeed, was a revulsion ; since that moment I have
been divided what to do, and had it been confirmed,
this would have been my last day in Bath."
There was time for all this to pass, with such inter-
ruptions only as enhanced the charm of the communica-
tion, and Bath could hardly contain any other two beings
at once so rationally and so rapturously happy as during
that evening occupied the sofa of Mrs. Croft's drawing-
room in Gay Street.
Captain Wentworth had taken care to meet the
Admiral as he returned into the house, to satisfy him as
to Mr. Elliot and Kellynch ; and the delicacy of the
Admiral's good-nature kept him from saying another
word on the subject to Anne. He was quite concerned
lest
( 263 )
lest he might have been giving her pain by touching on
a tender part — who could say ? She might be Hking her
cousin better than he liked her ; and, upon recollection,
if they had been to marry at all, why should they have
waited so long ? When the evening closed, it is probable
that the Admiral received some new ideas from his wife,
whose particularly friendly manner in parting with her
gave Anne the gratifying persuasion of her seeing and
approving. It had been such a day to Anne ; the hours
which had passed since her leaving Camden Place had
done so much ! She was almost bewildered — almost too
happy in looking back. It was necessary to sit up half
the night, and lie awake the remainder, to comprehend
with composure her present state, and pay for the overplus
of bliss by headache and fatigue.
Then follows Chapter XI., i. e. XII. in the published
book and at the end is written —
Finis, July 18, 1816.
It
o
o
o
2;
NOTES
ABBREVIATIONS
S S = Sense and Sensibility,
P P = Pride and Prejudice.
MP = Mansfield Park.
E — Emma.
N A = Northanger Abbey.
P = Persuasion.
Memoir = A Memoir of Jane Austen by her Nephew J. E. Austen
Leigh. Second Edition, Bentley, 1871.
Life = Jane Austen Her Life and Letters A Family Record
by William Austen Leigh and Richard Arthur
Austen Leigh. 1913.
The Letters are quoted either from Letters of Jane Austen
edited by Edward, Lord Brabourne, 1884, or from the Life.
NOTES
The sole authority for the text is the posthumous edition
of 1818.
NORTHANGER ABBEY
Page 14 1. 9. the *' Beggar's Petition ". The Beggar is the
first poem in Poems on Several Occasions (Wolverhampton
1769) by the Rev. Thomas Moss. It was included in Pearch's
Continuation of Dodsley's Collection (1775, Vol. Ill, p. 322).
The opening is typical of the whole :
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man !
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door.
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh I give relief — and heav'n will bless your store.
The poem was evidently a standing dish. I find it promi-
nently displayed (on the back of the wrapper) in Mamma's
Gift to her Good Child. Select Poetry for Children — a collection
printed by Ryle & Co. of Monmouth-court, Bloomsbury. (No
date ; but Mr. Harvey Darton has very kindly examined the
booklet, and puts it at about 1823.)
1. 12. The Hare and Many Friends : in Gay's Fables.
Page 15 1. 31. Pope : To the Memory of an Unfortunate
Lady :
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances and the public show.
1. 33. Gray : the same misquotation in £^282. Miss
Austen was perhaps misled by Cowper, who makes the same
mistake (Hayley's Life, 1803, Vol. I, p. 39).
1. 36. Thompson : Spring 1149 :
Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought.
To teach the young idea how to shoot.
Page 16 1.1. Shakspeare : Othello iii. iii. S2S (confirma-
tions) ; Measure for Measure iii. i. 79 {which should be that,
feels should be finds) ; Twelfth- Night ii. iv. 116.
Page 27 1. 2. Mr. King : ' In 1785 . . . James King, Esq.,
who had highly distinguished himself in the British army in
America, was elected without opposition to the Lower Rooms,
In 1805, Mr. Tyson, to the regret of the visitors at Bath,
resigned his situation [as M.C. of the Upper Rooms], and was
succeeded by Mr. King.' Walks through Bath (1819).
Page 28 1. 26. do you] do 1818.
Page 30 note. Rambler : (No. 97 is in Vol. II in the later
268 NOTES
four-volume editions, not in the first collected edition in six
volumes). * That a young lady should be in love, and the
love of the young gentleman undeclared, is an heterodoxy
which prudence, and even policy, must not allow. But thus
applied to, she is all resignation to her parents. Charming
resignation, which inclination opposes not.'
Page 32 1. 17. station 1818.
Page 37 1. 34. lines] lives was conjectured by Verrall.
Page 38 1. 7. Belinda : by Maria Edgeworth (1801).
Page 40 1. 7. the Italian : Mrs. Radcliffe's The Italian,
or the Confessional of the Black Penitents (1797).
1. 13. Castle of Wolfenbach : for these works see the
General Index of Authors, &c. The curious may consult
Notes and Queries 5 Nov. 1921, where information about the
books is extracted from the Critical Review and elsewhere.
Page 45 1. 16. A scrape is the leg which accompanied a bow ;
it seems always to imply awkwardness or rusticity.
Page 46 1. 11. forehand : that part of a horse which is in
front of the rider. Some modern editions egregiously print
forehead.
Page 48 1. 35. the Monk : by M. G. Lewis (1796), See
the Index of Authors.
Page 49 1. 20. playing at see-saw and learning Latin :
Camilla Book I Chapter 3 Consequences, Chapter 4 Studies of
a grown Gentleman.
Page 59 1. 17. quizzers should perhaps be quizzes, for the
context shows that the speaker regards his sisters as objects
of ridicule.
Page 60 1. 15. at noon. It is difficult to reconcile Catherine's
resolution to visit the Pump-room at noon with her resolution
to read Udolpho 'till the clock struck one'. Dr. Bradley
thinks that noon may be used loosely. It is possible that the
text is corrupt, and that at noon represents some phrase
containing the word afternoon (which though rare occurs
e.g. N A 190). The Pump-room was most frequented while
the band played, and this (at least in 1819, the date of
P. Egan's Walks through Bath) was between the hours of one
and half-past three.
Page 62 1. 19. take the rest : this is rest sb.^ in the Oxford
Dictionary, connected with restive.
Page 89 1. 31. Thorpe's should perhaps be the Thorpes'.
Page 92 1. 35. towards] towarde 1818.
Page 96 1. 3. the Bedford : no doubt the Bedford Coffee-
house in Covent Garden.
NORTHANGER ABBEY 269
Page 101 1. 16. This passage is printed in 1818 thus :
after her, but Morland withheld him.
*' Let her go, let her go, if she will go.
She is as obstinate as "
Thorpe never finished the simile, for
There are three possibilities : (1) that the whole sentence was
spoken by Thorpe ; this seems improbable ; (2) that it was
spoken by Morland, and that Miss Austen wrote Thorpe by
inadvertence ; (3) that she intended two speeches. I have
ventured to adopt the third solution, which seems the most
satisfactory ; it will be remembered that the proofs were not
read by the author.
Page 108 1. 3. Johnson and Blair : Blair's Lectures on
Rhetoric, and Belles Lettres are no doubt intended.
Page 111 1. 5. a s^ister author : Miss Burney. Thefpeautiful
girl is Indiana, in Camilla.
Page 113 1. 17. Northampton. I cannot find that the 12th
Light Dragoons were stationed at Northampton at any date
that will do. They were in England 1795-6, and were for
part of the time at Nottingham. They left for Portugal in
January 1797 and did not return until 1802. Many cavalry
regiments were at Northampton in these years, however ;
cavalry barracks were built there in 1796.
Page 116 1. 20. adjourned vulg. : adjoined 1818.
Page 145 1. 30. where am I wandering to shows that
Isabella's fertile mind has conceived a third method of their
becoming sisters.
Page 162 1. 4. Rumford. Sir Benjamin Thompson, Count
von Rumford (1753-1814), a versatile genius, may be con-
sidered as the inventor of the modern type of open fire-place.
See his Essays (edition of 1800, Vol. I, p. 355) and G. E. Ellis's
Memoir (1876, p. 234). The grates in use were rectangular,
and of iron. Thompson substituted ' fire-stone ' for iron, and
set the sides of his grates at an angle of 135 degrees. Accident
suggested to him a further improvement : ' Having been
forced by circumstances to give one of his fireplaces a back
that sloped forward ' he found that this gave out more heat
than any other (Essays, loc. cit.). The historian of the Royal
Society (1848) stated that ' one of the earliest of Rumford's
stoves or fireplaces, is that set up under the Count's immediate
superintendence in my office in the Royal Society ' (Memoir,
loc. cit.). The word Rumfordize was used by Coleridge in 1796.
1. 20. there were] there 1818.
Page 170 1. 10. rekindling breath. I have not been able to
discover what kind of candle it was that could be rekindled
by blowing.
2fO NOTES
Page 172 1. 29. letters, hair-powder &c. The servant no
doubt had paid for his master's letters (letters were paid for
by the receiver). Breeches-ball is presumably something like
the wash-ball mentioned in Camilla, i.e. soap.
Page 178 1. 8. as well as] as well 1818.
Page 212 1. 14. a well-connected Parsonage may mean one
the tenure of which implies good social position, and the
neighbourhood of which affords good society. It is perhaps
more likely that it means conveniently arranged, the modern
compactness of Woodston being contrasted with the corridors
and distances of a rambling quadrangular abbey. I note, in
Humphrey Repton's Enquiry into the Changes of Taste in
Landscape Gardening (1806, p. 103), ' if the hall be so situated
as not to connect well with the several apartments to which
it might lead, it will then be defective in point of convenience.'
Page 212 1. 21. trio] two 1818. It is doubtful who was the
first author of this palmary correction. The word trio occurs
MP 286.
Page 241 1. 12. ' The Mirror: Doubtless No. XII, Satur-
day, March 6, 1779 : Consequence to little folks of intimacy with
great ones, in a letter from John Homespun. The habits of
dissipation and almost of profligacy (cards on Sunday and
a doubt of the immortality of the soul) contracted by Mr.
Homespun's daughters during a visit to Lady are suffi-
ciently unlike poor Catherine's listlessness or her fancy for
French-bread. We may suspect that Miss Austen is amusing
herself at Mrs. Morland's expense, if not at ours.
PERSUASION
Page 3 1. 8. contempt, as] contempt. As 1818 ; the cor-
rection was made by Macaulay.
1. 18. 1800 should probably be 1801 ; it is now the
summer of 1814 (8), and thirteen years have elapsed (5).
Page 4 1. 7. two handsome duodecimo pages : no doubt
J. Debrett's Baronetage of England, 2 vols. 12mo, first published
in 1808. There was an earlier Baronetage by W. Betham,
published at Ipswich in 1801-5, 4to.
Page 5 1. 24. daughters should perhaps be daughters^ ; the
authority of the early editions on this point is slight — the
apostrophe is not infrequently omitted or misplaced.
Page 22 1. 16. the deputation. Mr. MacKinnon informs me
that by old Acts game might be killed only by a lord of a
lordship or manor, or by a gamekeeper authorized in writing
PERSUASION 271
by the lord. Such authority was given to others also, and
(1716) 3 Geo. I cap. 11 recites that * under Colour and Pretence
of the said Power and Authority ... it is become usual . . .
to grant Powers and Deputations to the Farmers, Tenants and
Occupiers of Lands ... to be Gamekeepers.' But by (1808)
48 Geo. Ill cap. 93 § 2 it became * lawful for any Lord or
Lady of any Manor to appoint and depute any Person what-
ever ... to be a Gamekeeper . . . with Authority ... to kill
Game.'
Page 23 1. 35. nothing to do with the Strafford family :
of; Hawkins, Life of Johnson (1787, p. 9) ' a master named
Winkworth, but who, affecting to be thought allied to the
Strafford family, assumed the name of Wentworth.'
Page 26 1. 4. the action off St. Domingo : that of 6 February
1806, in which a French squadron was caught and over-
whelmed by a superior force commanded by Sir John
Duckworth.
Page 48 1. 15. no means of her going : because Charles
drove a curricle (95), which did not admit a third ; see S S 68
(ch. 13).
Page 54 1. 11. was, just vulg. : was just 1818.
1. 22. in reply] to reply 1818.
Page 86 1. 2. and " No] " And no 1818.
1. 38. an adjoining hedge-row. See Memoir (ed. 2),
p. 20. ' But the chief beauty of Steventon consisted in
its hedgerows. A hedgerow, in that country, does not mean
a thin formal line of quickset, but an irregular border of
copse-wood and timber, often wide enough to contain within
it a winding footpath, or a rough cart track . . . Two such
hedgerows radiated, as it were, from the parsonage garden.'
From an allusion in a letter to Cassandra — * If you could
discover whether Northamptonshire is a country of hedgerows,
I should be glad ' (29 Jan. 1813) — we may infer that Miss
Austen thought of using this piece of machinery in Mansfield
Park and scrupulously gave it up on hearing that North-
amptonshire was not a country of hedgerows. An interesting
conversation between Edmund and Mary, overheard —
perhaps at Sotherton — by Fanny, readily suggests itself.
Page 101 1. 14. endurances : it is tempting to read endur-
ance, but the plural may have a meaning.
Page 114 1. 34. the time required by the Upper c:oss horses :
a coach would travel less rapidly than a chaise.
Page 116 1. 5. an Emma towards her Henry : Prior's Henry
and Emma, a Poem, upon the Model of the Nut-Brown Maid :
272 NOTES
This potent Beauty, this Triumphant Fair,
This happy Object of our diff rent Care,
Her let me follow ; Her let me attend,
A Servant : (She may scorn the Name of Friend.)
What she demands, incessant I'll prepare :
I'll weave Her Garlands ; and I'll pleat Her Hair :
(and more to the same purpose).
Page 123 1. 10. room now\ now room 1818.
Page 125 1. 34. owners'] owners 1818.
Page 144 1. 33. silver sounds. See p. 306.
Page 146 1.1. Gowland : I find in The Bath Chronicle,
6 Jan. 1814, the following : —
A PLEASING APPEARANCE
Is the First Letter of Recommendation,
IADIES of the first Fashion, from their own experience,
J recommend Mrs. VINCENT'S GOWLAND's LOTION
as the most pleasant and effectual remedy for all complaints
to which the Face and Skin are liable [&c. &c.] in quarts
88. 6d. [&c.].
Page 150 1. 23. a little learning : Essay on Criticism 215.
Page 158 1. 3. no honours. An augmentation of honour is
an honourable addition to a coat of arms, granted for some
special achievement. Sir Walter probably refers to the bloody
hand, the armorial device of Ulster, borne by baronets. Sir
Henry was a knight.
Page 166 1. 33. high-spirited, joyous, talking Verrall :
high-spirited, joyous talking 1818 : high-spirited, joyous-
talking vulg. (Bentley 1882 &c.), Joyous-talking is an unlikely
compound ; for talking see Appendix on Language.
Page 170 1. 2. a three shilling piece : not a coin, but a Bank
of England token.
Page 174 1. 13. Holland's. The Bath Directory for 1812 has :
' MoUand Mrs. Cook and confectioner, 2, Milsom- street.'
Page 179 1. 23. " You will wonder " &c. I had always
supposed Anne's inference to be that Lady Russell had seen
and recognized Captain Wentworth, and that her story of the
curtains was at the least a prevarication ; but Mr. A. C.
Bradley (Jane Austen in Essays and Studies by Members of the
English Association, Vol. II, Oxford, 1911, p. 33) takes
a different view of the passage : " the touch of comic irony
falls on the most serious characters. . . . Anne is extremely
agitated to observe Lady Russell gazing intently from her
carriage at the long-lost lover, and finds that she was really
examining some curtains." The tone of what precedes
certainly seems in favour of this interpretation. On the other
PERSUASION 278
hand * pity and disdain ' seem hardly appropriate to Lady
Russell's offence, if that offence were no more than the failure
to recognize a man — no matter how little altered by the lapse
of time — whom she did not know to be in Bath. Again on
p. 180 *' Elizabeth had turned from him, Lady Russell over-
looked him ; her nerves were strengthened by these circum-
stances ; she felt that she owed him attention " ; overlooked
would suit unintentional at least as well as intentional lack
of recognition ; but why should the failure be thought of as
a slight ?
That Anne's pity and disdain were ' either at her friend or
herself* perhaps suggests an open verdict on Anne's opinion
(with which, rather than with the fact, we are concerned).
Anne may have suspected her friend of wilful blindness
without being sure of it. (Lady Russell's saying nothing,
proves nothing. At the concert, when Anne ' was persuaded
by Lady Russell's countenance that she had seen him ', Lady
Russell still said nothing.)
Mr. Bradley's * from her carriage ' is no doubt right, though
he has pointed out to me that the carriage is not mentioned.
Lady Russell *took her out in her carriage almost every
morning' (166); and on this occasion, when finished with
Captain Wentworth, or with Lady Alicia's curtains, she ' drew
back her head ' — from the window, no doubt.
Page 189 1. 31. the inimitable Miss Larolles : in Cecilia^
Book IV Chapter ii * Mr. Meadows has not spoke one word to
me all the evening ! Though I am sure he saw me, for I sat
at the outside on purpose to speak to a person or two, that
I knew would be strolling about ; for if one sits on the inside,
there's no speaking to a creature, you know, so I never do it
at the Opera, nor in the boxes at Ranelagh, nor any where.'
Page 200 1. 34. very should perhaps be every.
Page 203 1. 23. yours] your 1818.
Page 227 1. 19. unequal to more] unequal to move 1818.
Page 228 1. 27. out of vulg. : out 1818.
Page 229 1. 12. friends'] friend's 1818.
Page 240 1. 30. for it A. C. Bradley : it for 1818. This
elegant correction is perhaps not absolutely certain, but
I have not been able to resist it.
Page 242 1. 27. had begun] had began 1818.
Page 247 1. 7. posted implies promotion to the rank of
* post-captain ' ; cf. p. 29, ' early gained the other step in
rank ' ; he was made commander before he met Anne.
Page 251 1. 18. brothers and sisters : Admiral Croft and
Mrs. Edward Wentworth are no doubt included.
274
NOTE ON
THE ILLUSTRATIONS
Frontispiece to Persuasion. From La Belle Assemhlie
for 1815 :
Autumnal Walking Dress. Pelisse of French violet silk, or
rich twilled violet sarsnet ; it is made in the French style,
open in front, very short in the waist, and the back drawn in
behind with an easy fullness. Long loose plain sleeve, orna-
mented on each shoulder with a bow and long ends. This
pelisse is trimmed in a style of great elegance and originality
v/ith byas white satin laid on in folds, and points of sarsnet,
to correspond with the pelisse, are turned over ; the effect is
strikingly beautiful. Bonnet to correspond, ornamented with
artificial flowers, and tied under the chin with ribband of
a similar colour. For the form and trimming of this bonnet
we refer our readers to the Print, which will give them a correct
idea of its exquisitely modest, simple, and gentlewomanly
effect. Slippers to correspond, and white kid gloves.
We have to observe that this pelisse, made in white sarsnet
and ornamented with white satin, is also the first style of
carriage costume ; when worn in the latter the head dress
must be either a half-dress cap, or a white satin small gipsy,
or Wellington hat ; if either of the two first the ornaments
are flowers, and feathers if the last.
APPENDIXES
CHRONOLOGY OF NORTHANGER ABBEY
THE action of Northanger Abbey^ or more exactly the
visit of its heroine in Bath and in Gloucestershire, is
stated to occupy eleven weeks (231) in February, March,
and April. No precise dates are given, but the course of
most weeks can be traced. For convenience of reckoning
I assume — there is no ground for the assumption — that
the first Sunday in Bath was the first of February, in
a year not a leap-year. Days actually named are printed
in italic.
Three or four days were spent in learning what was mostly
worn. Page 20
Mon. ' 2 ' Feb. The Upper Rooms. 26
Tues. ' 3 ' Feb. The Theatre. 26
Wed. ' 4 ' Feb. The Concert. 26
Fri. ' 5 ' Feb. The Lower Rooms. Catherine is introduced to
Henry Tilney. 26
Sat. * 7 ' Feb. They meet the Thorpes. Henry leaves Bath
for a week. 31, 35, 54
Sun. ' 8 ' Feb. The Pump-room ; the Crescent. 35
Mon. * 16 ' Feb. Catherine and Isabella have been acquainted
eight or nine days. John Thorpe and James Morland
arrive. Henry reappears with his sister.
39, 44, 53, 73, 74
Tues. ' 17 ' Feb. Catherine is driven out by John Thorpe
' in a fine mild day of February \ They go to the
Theatre. 63, 70
Wed. ' 18 ' Feb. Catherine meets Miss Tilney in the Pump-
room. 71, 73
Thur. ' 19 ' Feb. The cotillion ball. 73, 74
iFri. * 20 ' Feb. Catherine misses her walk, and does not visit
Blaize Castle. 82
* 21 ' Feb. She calls in Milsom-street and is not admitted.
She makes her apologies at the Theatre. 91, 92
(' Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and
Saturday have now passed in review'.) 97
276 APPENDIXES
Sun, * 22 ' Feb. The Crescent. General TUney. 97, 102
Mon. ' 23 ' Feb. Catherine and the Tilneys walk round
Beechen Cliff. The Thorpes go to Clifton. 106, 115
Tues. ' 24 ' Feb. Isabella announces her engagement. 120
Wed. ' 25 ' Feb. Catherine dines in Milsom-street, 114, 129
Thur. ' 26 ' Feb. She dances with Henry. 131
? Fri. ' 27 ' Feb. James Morland's second letter. 136
About a week elapses. ' The Aliens had now entered on the
sixth week of their stay ... it was determined that the
lodgings should be taken for another fortnight ' . . . ' the
present was now comprised in another three weeks *.
18, 138
General Tilney invites Catherine to accompany him and his
family * on Saturday se'nnight '. (They actually go on
Friday, see below). 139
She meets Isabella when two or three days have passed
away. 143
A few days passed away. Their journey into Gloucestershire
was to take place within a few days. 149, 150
Fri. ' 20 ' March. The Tilneys and Catherine leave Bath.
The Aliens have still one week of their eight. 154
Sat. ' 21 ' March. Henry goes to Woodston for two or three
days. Catherine is shown over the Abbey. 175, 176, 195
The beauty of Northanger in March. 177
Sun. ' 22 ' March. Church. 190
Mon. ' 23 ' March. Catherine visits Mrs. Tilney's chamber, and
Henry returns unexpectedly. 191, 195
Tues. * 24 ' March. She recovers her spirits, and begins to
long for a letter from Bath. She is disappointed on nine
successive mornings. 201
Mon. * 30 * March, the tenth morning (from her arrival on
* 20 ' March). James's letter. 201, 202
A day or two passed. 209
Sat. ' 4 ' April. General Tilney proposes a surprise visit to
Woodston, and fixes it for Wednesday at a quarter before
one. Henry leaves to prepare a dinner. 209, 211
Sun. ' 5 ' and Mon. ' 6 ' April. Past, present, and future, all
equally in gloom. 212
Tues. * 7 ' April. The General attends the club. 210
Wed. * 8 * April. They go to Woodston. 212
Thur. * 9 ' April. Isabella's letter, dated April. 216
Soon after, the General goes to London for a week. 220
Catherine is now in the fourth week of her stay. 220
Sat. ' 18 ' April. Henry goes to Woodston for two nights.
The General returns. 221, 222
CHRONOLOGY OF NORTHANGER ABBEY 277
Sun. ' 19 ' April. Catherine returns to Fullerton. 229, 233
Mon. * 20 ' April. Henry returns to the Abbey and leaves
* almost instantly '. General Tilney and his daughter
leave for Hereford. Catherine calls on Mrs. Allen.
235, 236, 244
Tues. ' 21 ' April. Henry sets out for Fullerton. 244
Wed. ' 22 ' April. Mrs. Morland looks for the Mirror y and
makes the acquaintance of Mr. Henry Tilney. 241
The dates here given are fictitious ; but it is probable
that Miss Austen used an almanac, as seems to have been
her custom ; and if so it will be seen that the dates
cannot be very different from those given, or the indica-
tions of month would be falsified.
We know that the book was in a sense ' finished ' in
1798. If we assume that the calendar of that year was
used, the Monday which I have called ' 2 ' Feb. may have
been Mon. 29 Jan., and the Monday which I have called
' 23 ' March will then be 19 March. We are told (193)
that on that day ' at four o'clock, the sun was now two
hours above the horizon '. On 19 March sunset at Green-
wich is at 6 hrs. 9 mins. It would be like our author to
get this right.
As we should expect, the dates are consistent not only
with each other, but also with the facts of Bath. I learn
from The Historic and Local New Bath Guide for 1802
that
' There are two Dress Balls every week, viz. on Monday
at the New Rooms [that is the Upper Rooms], and on
Friday at the Lower Rooms. . . . There are also two
Fancy Balls every week, viz. at the Lower Rooms on
Tuesday, and at the New Rooms on Thursday. . . . And
nine Subscription Concerts, and three Choral Nights, in
the winter at the New Rooms, on Wednesday, under the
direction of Mr. Rauzzini.'
Finally at the Theatre ' the days of performances are in
general, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays '.
1781.5 M m
278 APPENDIXES
Mr. MacKinnon, assuming that the authoress used the
calendar of 1798, the year in which the story was ' com-
pleted ',^ takes the date I have called Mon. ' 2 ' Feb. to be
Mon. 5 Feb. It follows, since Easter Day in 1798 was
8 April, that the Monday on which Henry Tilney ' must
be at Woodston to attend the parish meeting ' (209)
would be Easter Monday. Mr. MacKinnon is further
of opinion that the only meeting likely to be called
,' the parish meeting ' is the Easter Vestry. This is
important ; for if Miss Austen intended to send Henry
to Woodston on Easter Monday she must have meant
him to intend to spend Easter Sunday at Northanger ;
as he would have done, but for the necessity of preparing
a dinner for his father (211). Again, in Mr. MacKinnon's
calendar, the Monday of p. 193 would be 26 March, on
which day sunset at Greenwich is at 6 hrs. 21 mins. This
7nay indicate that Mr. MacKinnon's dates are a week too
late, and that the parish meeting was a week earlier. If
so, however, and if Miss Austen used the calendar of
1798, Henry was absent on Easter Day, for there is no
indication that he returned to Woodston for the Sunday
after the dinner there ! I prefer to think that the meeting
was, perhaps, a meeting of overseers and churchwardens,
for poor-law purposes (which Henry might attend as
himself an overseer, or as a Justice of the Peace), that
this Monday was not thought of as necessarily Easter
Monday, and that Miss Austen did not intend him to
neglect his clerical duties on Easter Day.
I may add that the opinion commonly entertained of
the laxity of parsons, as represented (and perhaps con-
doned) by Miss Austen, rests on very slight foundations.
It is true that Henry Tilney — even if we acquit him of
leaving the Easter services to his curate — seems to take
» MemoiTj ed. 2, p. 145.
CHRONOLOGY OF NORTHANGER ABBEY 279
his duties somewhat lightly ; but Henry was a young man,
and his creator still younger. Even he spent a good deal
of his time in his parish — ' Northanger is not more than
half my home ' (157). In the other novels there is very
little ground for the common belief. It has been
repeatedly stated that ' most of the clergymen are
absentees \ This is merely untrue ; there is no evidence
that, for instance, Dr. Grant, or Mr. Collins, or Mr. Elton
was often absent from his parish. And whatever may
have been the parochial backslidings of these clergymen,
there is no reason to suppose that Miss Austen approved
them. Her o^vn opinions were doubtless those which are
expressed by Sir Thomas Bertram and his son (see,
especially, M P 247).
The author of the Memoir ^vrote ^ that ' no one in these
days can think that either Edmund Bertram or Henry
Tilney had adequate ideas of the duties of a parish
minister ' ; but he recognized that ' such were the
opinions and practices then prevalent among respectable
and conscientious clergymen before their minds had been
stirred, first by the Evangelical, and afterwards by the
High Church movement '.
In the same chapter Mr. Austen Leigh adds : ' She
did not suppose that her imaginary characters were of
a higher order than are to be found in nature ; for she
said, when speaking of two of her great favourites,
Edmund Bertram and Mr. Knightley: "They are very
far from being what I know English gentlemen often
are." ' What Miss Austen meant by this only the context
could determine. I cannot think she meant that many
English gentlemen are more estimable than Mr. Knightley.
1 Ed. 2, p. 145.
M m 2
280^ APPENDIXES
CHRONOLOGY OF PERSUASION
THOUGH Persuasion is the only one of the novels the
action of which is definitely dated, the indications of
time are less frequent and exact than is usual. The day
of the week is not very often named, and the intervals
are indeterminate.
We are told at the outset the birthdays of Sir Walter
and his children, and their ages at the opening of the
story in the summer of 1814 (p. 8). The date of Lady
Elliot's death is given as 1800, but this is inconsistent
with the statement that 13 years had elapsed (p. 5 ; cf. p. 47,
where Anne's age at the time is given as 14 ; she was born
in 1787) ; 1800 is perhaps a slip or a printer's error for 1801.
It was in the summer of 1806 that Commander Frederick
Wentworth began his six months' stay at Monkford (26).
He left in 1807 (28, 60), and though. he revisited England
in ' the year eight ' (247) when he ' was posted to the
Laconia ', he did not see Anne again.
The Elliots left Kellynch September 1814 (33, 206) and
the Crofts took possession at Michaelmas (33, 48). Anne
was to spend two months at Uppercross (43, 93), and
November is mentioned (83, 88). It was ' on a dark
November day ' (123) that she joined Lady Russell at
Kellynch Lodge. The Charles Musgroves called there on
their return from Lyme ; they had stayed at Lyme
until Louisa was well enough to sit up ; and this must
have been about a fortnight ; for Captain Wentworth
stayed ' about a fortnight. I could not leave it till
Louisa's doing well was quite ascertained ' (129, 183).
At least a week later (133) the senior Musgroves returned
to the Great House, and Lady Russell and Anne called
I
CHRONOLOGY OF PERSUASION 281
there ' in the Christmas holidays ' (135). ' Not long
afterwards ' (135) they went to Bath.
When Anne had been a month in Bath (160, 162) ' it
was the beginning of February ' ; and Mary's letter,
dated ' February 1st, ' (though the blank must be
1815) was received by her ' several days ' later. It was
brought by the Crofts, who, a week or ten days after-
wards (168), received a letter from Captain Went worth,
who had learned the news of Louisa's engagement (173),
and must have followed his letter with the least possible
delay (174 ; ' I will be at Bath on Wednesday ', 243).
Since the accident he had spent a fortnight at Lyme, as
we have seen, and when he left Lyme he may have spent
a week at Plymouth (133) before going to his brother in
Shropshire (134), where he stayed six weeks (243. The
fortnight at Lyme and the six weeks in Shropshire will
not fill the interval between the middle or end of November
and the middle of February).
From this point we can follow events more closely. If
Captain W^entworth arrived on a Wednesday, the day of
his meeting Anne in Holland's was Thursday (177).
Next day (178) she saw him in Pulteney-street. Then
' a day or two passed without producing anything ' (179).
Anne ' was quite impatient for the concert evening ' (180).
This should be Wednesday (see above, p. 277) ; and
when Anne at the end of the evening saw that Captain
Went worth was jealous of Mr. Elliot, she asked herself
' Could she have believed it a week ago ? ' (190). Next
morning (192), which I take to be Thursday, Anne visited
Mrs. Smith, who had had ' the whole history ' of Mr.
Elliot's intentions ' on Monday evening ' (197 ; she had
seen Anne the day before, and had then given her the
first hint of her suspicions, 180). When Anne returns to
Camden-place we find that it is Thursday ; for Mr. Elliot
282 APPENDIXES
is ' going to his friends at Thornbury-park for the whole
day tomorrow ' ; he would be gone ' the greater part of
two days ', and would be in Camden-place again on
Saturday evening (213, 214, 222). On Friday morning
(215) Anne's intended visit in Rivers-street is prevented
by the arrival of Charles and Mary (216). Charles takes
a box at the theatre for ' to-morrow ' (Saturday) night,
but is persuaded to change it for Tuesday (223, 224 ; for
the theatre-nights see, again, p. 277). The next day is
spent by Anne at the White Hart (229), and at the
party in Camden-place that night the story reaches its
conclusion.
In this last episode Miss Austen is as exact as ever ;
but there is no indication that she used a calendar ;
and the date of Mary's letter is wrong. Writing on
* February 1st ' she refers to Louisa's return ' to-morrow ',
which the postscript shows to be Tuesday. But Feb. 1
was not a Monday in 1815, but a Wednesday.
t^v
PULTENEY-STREET AND LAURA PLACE
TOPOGRAPHY OF BATH
THERE is very little to say on this point. The topo-
graphy of the two novels, though doubtless exact, is
not given in much detail. The only difference I have
noticed is that Union Street figures in Persuasion but
not in Northanger Abbey. Nowadays you may go from
Cheap Street in the direction of Milsom Street either by
Union Street or by the narrow Union Passage which runs
parallel with it. The name Union Passage I have not
seen in any map earlier than 1808 ; it was formerly Cock
Lane ; in some maps (inaccurately, I am told) Cook's
Lane, Union Street, according to Peach (Street-Lore of
Bath, 1893), is the union of Milsom Street and Stall Street
(not named in reference to the Union of Great Britain and
Ireland) and was projected in 1789, finished by Baldwin in
1806, and opened in 1807. It was for long possible for
pedestrians to go that way, by passing through the Bear Inn
yard ; but the street as it is now dates from the demolition
of the Bear and other buildings. I have seen it, in maps
of 1795 and 1807, called Union Street, but represented
as an aspiration, existing buildings being shown dotted.
In the map (dated 1801) here reproduced. Union Street
is not named, though there is a thoroughfare on the site.
This map is taken from the Historic and Local New Bath
Guide, published 1801 or 1802 (no date on title-page ;
but the frontispiece and the map are dated November
1801) ; in chapter 13 of this work, ' Of the Improvements
in the old Town ', is mentioned the Act of 1789 ' enabling
the corporation to erect five new streets ' ; of these ' the
first is intended to lead from Burton-street, near the
General Hospital, to Stall-street ' ; but it is not named.
It will be remembered that Catherine and Isabella,
leaving the Pump-yard for Edgar's Buildings, proposed
to cross Cheap-street and enter Union-passage (N A 44).
For Union-street see P 239.
284 APPENDIXES
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
OF the fame of ' the great Enchantress ', the curious
will find a full account in Ann Radcliffe in Relation
to her Time, a dissertation published in the Yale Studies
in English ; the authoress has diligently searched the
magazines of the day. The best contemporary account
is of course Scott's in the Lives of the Novelists. Such
was Mrs. Radcliffe's reputation, that Gaston de Blondeville,
a romance, posthumously published in 1826, actually
obtained admittance to the Bodleian Library, though
neither The Mysteries of Udolpho nor Northanger Abbey
appears in the printed catalogue of 1843.
Miss Austen, though she shows a close acquaintance
with her subject, is not always accurate ; Emily and
ValancouH (the heroine and hero) and Montoni (the villain)
are correctly named ; but Laurentina (40, 41, 43) should
be the Lady Laurentini, and St, Aubin (83) should be
St, Aubert.
I quote a few of the passages by which Miss Austen
was particularly inspired (the text is that of 1794, but the
references are to the chapters as numbered in one-
volume reprints) :
Chapter 8 {N A 83, 'the night that poor St. Aubin
died ') : All without was obscured in shade ; but Emily,
turning her eyes from the massy darkness of the woods
. . . saw . . . that effulgent planet, which the old man had
pointed out, setting over the woods.
Chapter 39. She was also interested by Dorothee, the
house-keeper, who attended them, whose appearance
was almost as antique as the objects around her, and who
seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she fre-
quently gazed with so much deep attention, as scarcely
to hear what was said to her.
J
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 285
Chapter 20. She paused again, and then, with a timid
hand, lifted the veil ; but instantly let it fall — perceiving
that what it had concealed was no picture, and, before
she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless on
the floor.
Chapter 19. While he paced the room with thoughtful
steps, . . . Emily was observing the singular solemnity and
desolation of the apartment, viewed, as it now was, by
the glimmer of the single lamp, placed near a large Vene-
tian mirror, that duskily reflected the scene, with the
tall figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his arms
folded, and his countenance shaded by the plume, that
waved in his hat.
Chapter 29. His unconsciousness of the hatred he
deserved it was natural enough should at first lead him
to attribute to her the attempt that had been made upon
his life ; and, though there was no other reason to believe
that she was concerned in that atrocious design, his
suspicions remained ; he continued to confine her in the
turret, under a strict guard ; and, without pity or remorse,
had suffered her to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a
raging fever, till it had reduced <her> to the present
state.
Mr. Harvey Eagleson, of the Leland Stanford University,
has called my attention to a passage in the eighth chapter
of The Romance of the Forest (1791), which bears a closer
resemblance to the adventures of Catherine Morland, and
to the imaginative forecast of them made by Henry
Tilney, than anything to be found in Udolpho itself.
What follows is quoted from the second edition (1792) of
the Romance,
Adeline retired early to her room, which adjoined on
one side to Madame La Motte's, and on the other to the
closet formerly mentioned. It was spacious and lofty.
THE
MYSTERIES of UDOLPHO,
A
R O MANC E;
INTER SPERSLD WITH SOME PIECES OF POETRY.
B V
ANN RADCLIFFE,
AVTHOR OF TH£ ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, ETC.
IN FOUR VOLUMES,
Fate fus on thcfc d^rk battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portaJs open to receive me,
Her voice, in fullcn echoes through the courtf,
Tclh of a namelef; deed.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED rOR C. C. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1794.
288 APPENDIXES
and what little furniture it contained was falling to decay ;
but, perhaps, the present tone of her spirits might con-
tribute more than these circumstances to give that air
of melancholy which seemed to reign in it. She was
unwilling to go to bed, lest the dreams that had lately
pursued her should return ; and determined to sit up till
she found herself oppressed by sleep, when it was probable
her rest would be profound. She placed the light on
a small table, and, taking a book, continued to read for
above an hour, till her mind refused any longer to abstract
itself from its own cares, and she sat for some time
leaning pensively on her arm.
The wind was high, and as it whistled through the
desolate apartment, and shook the feeble doors, she
often started, and sometimes even thought she heard
sighs in the pauses of the gust ; but she checked these
illusions, which the hour of the night and her own melan-
choly imagination conspired to raise. As she sat musing,
her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, she perceived the
arras, with which the room was hung, wave backwards
and forwards ; she continued to observe it for some
minutes, and then rose to examine it farther. It was
moved by the wind, and she blushed at the momentary
fear it had excited : but she observed that the tapestry
was more strongly agitated in one particular place than
elsewhere, and a noise that seemed something more than
that of the wind issued thence. The old bedstead, which
La Motte had found in this apartment, had been removed
to accommodate Adeline, and it was behind the place
where this had stood, that the wind seemed to rush with
particular force : curiosity prompted her to examine still
farther ; she felt about the tapestry, and perceiving the
wall behind shake under her hand, she lifted the arras,
and discovered a small door, whose loosened hinges
admitted the wund, and occasioned the noise she had
heard.
The door was held only by a bolt, having undrawn
which, and brought the light, she descended by a few
steps into another chamber : she instantly remembered
her dreams. The chamber was not much like that in
which she had seen the dying Chevalier, and afterwards
the bier ; but it gave her a confused remembrance of one
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 289
through which she had passed. Holding up the light to
examine it more fully, she was convinced by its structure
that it was part of the ancient foundation. A shattered
casement, placed high from the floor, seemed to be the
only opening to admit light. She observed a door on
the opposite side of the apartment ; and after some
moments of hesitation, gained courage, and determined
to pursue the inquiry. ' A mystery seems to hang over
these chambers,' said she, ' which it is, perhaps, my lot
to develope ; I will, at least, see to what that door
leads.'
She stepped forward, and having unclosed it, pro-
ceeded with faltering steps along a suite of apartments,
resembling the first in style and condition, and terminat-
ing in one exactly like that where her dream had repre-
sented the dying person. The remembrance struck so
forcibly upon her imagination, that she was in danger
of fainting ; and looking round the room, almost expected
to see the phantom of her dream.
Unable to quit the place, she sat down on some old
lumber to recover herself, while her spirits were nearly
overcome by a superstitious dread, such as she had
never felt before. She wondered to what part of the
abbey these chambers belonged, and that they had so
long escaped detection. The casements were all too high
to afford any information from without. When she was
sufficiently composed to consider the direction of the
rooms, and the situation of the abbey, there appeared
not a doubt that they formed an interior part of the
original building.
As these reflections passed over her mind, a sudden
gleam of moonlight fell upon some object without the
casement. Being now sufficiently composed to wish to
pursue the inquiry, and believing this object might afford
her some means of learning the situation of these rooms,
she combated her remaining terrors, and, in order to
distinguish it more clearly, removed the light to an outer
chamber ; but before she could return, a heavy cloud
was driven over the face of the moon, and all without
was perfectly dark : she stood for some moments waiting
a returning gleam, but the obscurity continued. As she
went softly back for the light, her foot stumbled over
290 APPENDIXES
something on the floor, and while she stooped to examine
it, the moon again shone, so that she could distinguish,
through the casement, the eastern towers of the abbey.
This discovery confirmed her former conjectures con-
cerning the interior situation of these apartments. The
obscurity of the place prevented her discovering what it
was that had impeded her steps, but having brought the
light forward, she perceived on the floor an old dagger :
with a trembling hand she took it up, and upon a closer
view perceived that it was spotted and stained with rust.
Shocked and surprised, she looked round the room for
some object that might confirm or destroy the dreadful
suspicion which now rushed upon her mind ; but she saw
only a great chair, with broken arms, that stood in one
corner of the room, and a table in a condition equally
shattered, except that in another part lay a confused
heap of things, which appeared to be old lumber. She
went up to it, and perceived a broken bedstead, with
some decayed remnants of furniture, covered with dust
and cobwebs, and which seemed, indeed, as if they had
not been moved for many years. Desirous, however, of
examining farther, she attempted to raise what appeared
to have been part of the bedstead, but it slipped from
her hand, and, rolling to the floor, brought with it some
of the remaining lumber. Adeline started aside and saved
herself, and when the noise it made had ceased, she
heard a small rustling sound, and as she was about to
leave the chamber, saw something falling gently among
the lumber.
It was a small roll of paper, tied with a string, and
covered with dust. Adeline took it up, and on opening
it perceived an handwriting. She attempted to read it,
but the part of the manuscript she looked at was so
much obliterated, that she found this difficult, though
what few words were legible impressed her with curiosity
and terror, and induced her to return with it immediately
to her chamber.
In the narrative which succeeds, the heroine's perturba-
tions by day alternate with the terrors produced at night
by the furtive perusal of this manuscript.
INDEX OF CHARACTERS, ETC.
NORTHANGER ABBEY
Mr. ALLEN, of Fullerton in Wilts ; Mrs. Allen ; no children.
Miss Andrews, a sweet girl (40).
General Court enay (139).
Charlotte Davis (217).
' Dorothy', a housekeeper of romance (158).
Emily (115).
Sam Fletcher (76).
the Lady Frasers (209).
Freeman of Christ Church (46).
Charles Hodges, and others (130, 217).
Mrs. Hughes (54).
Capt. Hunt (40).
Jackson of Oriel (47).
Mr. King, master of the ceremonies at the Lower Rooms
(25, 27). See the Index of Real Persons.
the Marquis of Longtown (139, 224) ; his daughter (?), Alice
(228).
' Matilda', a heroine of romance (160).
the Mitchells ; Anne Mitchell (90, 217).
the Rev. Richard MORLAND, of Fullerton, in Wilts ; Mrs.
Morland ; their children : James, Oxford (33) ; Richard (240) ;
George (233) ; Catherine, 17 (16), 3,000Z. (251) ; Sarah,
16 (19) ; Harriet ; four others, the youngest 6 and 4 (233).
Mr. George Parry (23).
Robinson (214).
Miss Smith (73).
Sophia (115).
Dr. Skinner and his family (22, 54).
Mrs. THORPE, a widow, of Putney (122) ; her children : John,
Oxford (32) ; Edward, Merchant-Taylors' (32) ; William ;
Isabella, 21 (33) ; Anne ; Maria (115).
292 INDEX OF CHARACTERS, ETC.
General TILNEY, of Northanger Abbey in Gloucestershire ;
m. Miss Drummond, 20,000Z. (68), who died nine years
before the story (186) ; their children :
Captain Frederick Tilney, of the 12th Light Dragoons (113).
the Rev. Henry Tilney, 24 or 25 (25) ; Oxford (107) ; incum-
bent of Woodston ; m. Catherine Morland.
Eleanor, m. Viscount (251).
William, the General's man (103).
FEIGNED PLACES
Brockham (210) ; Fullerton, Wilts (17) ; Northanger Abbey,
Gloucestershire (30, and passim) ; Woodston (157, &c.).
PERSUASION
Lady Alicia (179).
Miss Atkinson (177).
Admiral Baldwin (20).
James BENWICK, first lieutenant Laconia (96), commander
Grappler, 1813 (108, 171) ; m. Louisa Musgrove.
Admiral Brand (170).
Captain Brigden (169).
Mrs. (Penelope, 23) CLAY, d. of John Shepherd ; two children
(15) ; m. Sir William Elliot ? (250).
Admiral CROFT, Rear Admiral of the White (21) ; m. Sophia
Wentworth.
Dowager Viscountess DALRYMPLE ; her daughter. Miss Car-
teret (148).
Sir Archibald Drew (170).
the little Durands (193).
Sir Walter ELLIOT, Bart., of Kellynch Hall, in Somerset-
shire ; h, March 1, 1760 ; m. Elizabeth Stevenson (who
d. 1800 ; this should probably be 1801, see Appendix on
Chronology) ; his daughters : Elizabeth, b. 1 June 1785 ;
Anne, h. 9 August 1787 ; m. Frederick Wentworth ; Mary,
6. 20 Nov. 1791, m. Charles Musgrove (10,000/. each, 248).
INDEX OF CHARACTERS, ETC. 293
His nephew and heir, William Walter Elliot, ' about thirty '
(105) ; m. (1) a person unnamed ; ? (2) Mrs. Clay (250).
Mrs. Frankland (179).
Lady Mary Grierson (68).
Captain HARVILLE ; his wife and three children (69) ; his
sister Fanny, d. June 1813 (96, 108, 232).
HAYTER, Esq., of Winthrop in Somerset ; his wife,
sister of Mrs. Musgrove (74) ; his eldest son, the Rev. Charles
Hayter, m. Henrietta Musgrove ; his daughters (71).
the Ibbotsons (193).
Jemima, nursery-maid at Uppercross-cottage (45).
Mackenzie, gardener at Kellynch (38).
Lady Mary Maclean (193).
Mary (202).
Sir Basil Morley (20).
Charles MUSGROVE, Esq., of Uppercross in Somerset (3) ;
his wife (74) ; their children : Charles, q.v. ; Richard,
d. 1812 (51) ; Henrietta, 20 (40), m. Charles Hayter ;
Louisa, 19 (40, 50), m. James Benwick ; Harry (122) and
others (40).
Charles MUSGROVE, Esq., of Uppercross-cottage, heir to
the above ; m. 16 Dec. 1810, Mary Elliot (3) ; their
children, Charles and Walter (38).
the Pooles (39).
Mr. Robinson, apothecary (54).
nurse Rooke (155).
Sir Henry RUSSELL, Knight (11, 158) ; his widow, Lady
Russell, of Kellynch-lodge (15).
Lord St. Ives (19).
Sarah, nursery-maid at Uppercross (122).
John Shepherd, agent to Sir Walter Elliot (9, 17). See Clay.
Rev. Dr. Shirley, rector of Uppercross (78).
Charles SMITH ; m. Hamilton (152, 200).
Mrs. Speed (197).
the Spicers (76).
Stephen, Admiral Croft's servant (254).
1781.5 N n
294 INDEX OF CHARACTERS, ETC.
Governor Trent (23).
Colonel and Mrs. Wallis (139).
WENTWORTH : Sophia, m. Admiral Croft ; Edward, curate
of Monkford 1805-? 1808 (23) ; married, and settled in
Shropshire (73) ; Frederick, b. 1783 (125) ; commander 1*806
(26), sloop Asp (64) ; captain 1808, frigate Laconia (29, 247) ;
25,000?. (248) ; m. Anne Elliot.
FEIGNED PLACES
Kellynch, Somerset (3, 15, 94, &c.) ; Monkford (23) ; South
Park (3) ; Thornberry-park (213) ; Uppercross (3, 31, 36,
94, &c.) ; Winthrop (76). Uppercross was near Crewk-
herne (121), which is no doubt the ' neighbouring market
town ' (10) near Kellynch.
SHIPS
Asp (64) ; Grappler (108) ; Laconia (51).
GENERAL INDEX
I : OF LITERARY ALLUSIONS
To make the evidence for Miss Austen's reading complete,
I have indexed the references to books, plays &c, in the
Letters and Fragments, as well as those in the Novels.
References to the Letters are enclosed in square brackets.
As no one book contains all the published letters, they are
referred to by their dates.
The dates of the performances of plays are taken from
Genesfs Account of the English Stage. / give the date
of the first performance, and of some others which Miss Austen
might possibly have seen or heard of. (But Genesfs lists do
not seem to be complete.)
Adelaide and Theodore : see GENLIS.
The Agricultural Reports E 29 (perhaps General Review of the
Agriculture of the County of Surrey by William Stevenson,
1809, 1813).
Arabian Nights Entertainments : P 229.
[Artaxerxes (an opera translated from Metastasio) : Letters
5 March 1814.]
[Joseph BARETTI : Letters 20 Feb. 1807. The reference is
probably to A Journey from London to Geneva (1770), and
certainly to An Account of the Manners and Customs of
Italy (1768) ; it is in Italy that Baretti is ' dreadfully abusive
of poor Mrs. (Mr.) Sharpe '.]
The Baronetage : PS (? J. Debrett, Baronetage of England,
2 vols. 12mo, London 1808).
[Eaton Stannard BARRETT : The Heroine, or Adventures of
a Fair Romance Reader (1813), Letters 2 March 1814.]
[Sir John BARROW: Letters 24 Jan. 1813 'what are their
Biglands and their Barrows, their Macartneys and Mac-
kenzies, to Captain Pasley's Essay on the Military Policy
Nn 2
296 GENERAL INDEX
(sic) . . . and the Rejected Addresses ? ' — of a rival Book
Society. The association of names makes it certain that
Barrow is the editor of Macartney's (q.v.) Embassy to China
(1807) ; John BIGLAND was the author of a History of
Spain (1810) and A System of Geography and History (1812) ;
Sir George Steuart MACKENZIE wrote Travels in Iceland
(1811).]
[James BEATTIE : The Hermit quoted, Letters 23 Sept. 1813.]
[The Beehive (a musical farce attributed to Millingen ; Lyceum
Jan. 1811, Covent Garden June 1813) : Letters 15 Sept.
1813.]
The Beggafs Petition : see MOSS.
Belinda : see EDGEWORTH.
[Arnaud BERQUIN : UAmi de V Adolescence (Paris 1783).
A copy in the library of the Swansea Training College is
inscribed Jane Austen 1797 in Vol. I, and Cass. Elizth.
Austen in Vols. II and III ; see Mr. Salmon's letter in
Times Lit. Suppl. 16 Feb. 1922.]
[John BIGLAND : see BARROW.]
Hugh BLAIR : Sermons M P 92 ; Lectures on Rhetoric and
Belles Lettres alluded to iV ^ 108.
[Bon Ton, or High Life above Stairs : see GARRICK.]
[BOSWELL : Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides (1785), Letters
25 Nov. 1798 ; Life of Johnson (1791), ibid., quoted 8 Feb.
1807 C my dear Dr. Johnson '), 3 Nov. 1813.]
Isaac Hawkins BROWNE (the elder, 1705-60) : A Pipe of
Tobacco quoted MP 161.
[Mary BRUNTON : Self-Control : a novel (1810), Letters
30 April 1811, 11 Oct. 1813.]
[Sir Egerton BRYDGES : Arthur Fitz-Albini : a Novel (1798),
Letters 25 Nov. 1798, 11 June 1799.]
[Claudius BUCHANAN ? : Letters 24 Jan. 1813 'I am as
much in love with the author (Captain Pasley, q.v.) as ever
I was with Clarkson or Buchanan '. Claudius Buchanan
was author of An Apology for Promoting Christianity in
India (1813), Eight Sermons (1812), &c., &c. Thomas
CLARKSON wrote Memoirs of William Penn (1813).]
Frances BURNEY : Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress (1782)
iV ^ 38, P 189 ; Camilla, or a Picture of Youth (1796) N A
38, 49, 111.
I : OF LITERARY ALLUSIONS 297
lEvelina, or a Young Lady*s Entrance into the World (1778),
' written by Dr. Johnson ', Letters 2 June 1799 ; Lord
Orville, May or June 1814 ; Captain Mirvan, 26 Nov. 1815 ;
Madame Duval, 8 Feb. 1807; Cecilia : 'Aunt Cassandras are
quite as scarce as Miss Beverleys', 24 Jan. 1809 (referring to
the first paragraph of the novel) ; Camilla (Miss J. Austen's
name is in the list of subscribers) : Dr. Marchmont, 5 Sept.
1796 ; * she admires Camilla ', 15 Sept. 1796 ; The Wanderer,
or Female Difficulties (1814), 23 Sept. 1813.]
[Sarah Harriet BURNEY : Clarentine ; a Novel (1798),
Letters 8 Feb. 1807.]
BYRON : The Giaour (1813), The Bride of Abydos (1813),
P 100 ; comparison of ' Mr. Scott and Lord Byron ' 107,
167 ; The Corsair (1814) quoted 109 (l, 1, ' O'er the glad
waters of the dark blue sea ').
[The Corsair : Letters 5 March 1814.]
[Sir John CARR : Descriptive Travels in the Southern and
Eastern Parts of Spain and the Balearic Isles, in the year
1809 (1811), Letters 24 Jan. 1813 ; and see MP 235 and
note.]
The Castle of Wolfenbach : see PARSONS.
[The Chances (Beaumont and Fletcher, altered by the Duke
of Buckingham ; Theatre Royal 1667 ; often revised,
1777-1808) : a prologue by James Austen is extant, written
for the performance at Steventon Jan. 1788 ; Life 66.]
The Children of the Abbey : see ROCHE.
[The Clandestine Marriage : see COLMAN.]
[Thomas CLARKSON : see BUCHANAN.]
Clermont : see ROCHE.
[George COLMAN (the elder) : The Clandestine Marriage
(with Garrick ; Drury Lane Feb. 1766 ; often revived,
1784r-1813; Covent Garden Sept. 1813): Letters 15 and
25 Sept. 1813.]
George COLMAN (the younger) : The Heir at Law M P 131
(Haymarket 1797, Covent Garden 1797, Drury Lane 1808).
Columella : see GRAVES.
The Book of Common Prayer M P 340.
[Mrs. COOKE : Battleridge, an historical tale founded on facts.
By a lady of quality (London, Cawthorn, 1799), Letters
27 Oct. 1798.]
298 GENERAL INDEX
[William COOMBE : The Tour of Dr. Syntax in Search of
the Picturesque (1812) Letters 2 March 1814.]
[Edward COOPER : Practical and Familiar Sermons (1809),
Letters 24 Jan. 1809 ; Two Sermons preached at Wolver-
hampton (1816), Letters 8 Sept. 1816.]
[Corinna : Letters 27 Dec. 1808. Two translations of Mme de
Stael's Corinne were published in 1807.]
COWPER : 5 5 18, 47, 02 ; The Sofa quoted M P 56 ; The
Winter Evening quoted E 344 ; Tirocinium quoted M P 431.
[His works to be purchased. Letters 25 Nov. 1798 ; read by
Mr. Austen, 18 Dec. 1798 ; The Task, 8 Feb. 1807 ; Verses
on Alexander Selkirk, 23 Sept. 1813 ; contrasted with John-
son, 3 Nov. 1813. Her favourite poetical moralist, Bio-
graphical Notice N A 7.]
CRABBE : Tales (1812) MP 156 [Letters 15 Sept., 18 Oct.,
6 Nov. 1813. The preface from which she * made out that
he probably was married ' was no doubt that to Tlie Borough
(1810) ; see the third paragraph.]
Johann Baptist CRAMER, composer : E 242.
Richard CUMBERLAND : The Wheel of Fortune, a Comedy
M P 131. (Drury Lane 1795, Covent Garden 1804.)
[DEFOE : Robinson Crusoe, Letters 14 Sept. 1804.]
Belamere and Emmeline : History of England (1791) pp. 90
and 93 (of Love and Freindship 1922). I cannot trace this.
[The Devil to Pay (altered by Coffey from Jevon's The Devil
of a Wife ; Drury Lane Aug. 1731 ; often revived 1779-
1811 ; Covent Garden March 1814) : Letters 5 March 1814.]
[DODSLEY'S Collection of Poems By Several Hands sold (or
proposed to be sold) by J. A. for 10s., Letters 21 May 1801.
Whitehead's Je ne scai Quoi and Hawkins Browne's Pipe
of Tobacco, quoted M P 161, 292, are both in Volume II
of the Collection.^
[Don Juan, or the Libertine Destroyed (a pantomime, founded
on Shadwell's Libertine ; Drury Lane May 1792, May 1789 ;
Covent Garden May 1789) : Letters 15 Sept. 1813.]
Douglas I see HOME.
Sir William DUGDALE : P 4 (doubtless The antient usage
in bearing of such ensigns of honour as are commonly calVd
arms ; to which is added a catalogue of the present nobility
and baronets of England, 1682).
I : OF LITERARY ALLUSIONS 299
Maria EDGEWORTH : Belinda (1801), N A 4f).
[J. A.'s admiration for her novels, Letters 28 Sept. 1814 ;
Patronage (1814), August 1814, ' one of my vanities, like
your not reading Patronage \]
Elegant Extracts, or useful and entertaining pieces of poetry
(1789) compiled by Vicesimus Knox, the Essayist : E 29,
79 (but Kitty, q.v., is not to be found there).
[The Farmer's Wife (an opera by Charles Dibdin ; Covent
Garden, Feb. and July 1814) : Letters 9 March 1814 ' a
musical thing in three acts *.]
FIELDING : Tom Jones N A 4^S [Letters 9 Jan. 1796 ; Bio-
graphical Notice N A 7],
[Five Hours at Brighton {The Boarding House ; or, Five Hours
&c., a musical farce by Samuel Beazley ; Lyceum, Aug.
1811) : Letters 15 Sept. 1813.]
James FORDYCE : Sermons to Young Women (1766) P P 68.
The Gamester : see MOORE.
GARRICK : E 79 (see note)— see Kitty.
[Bon Ton, or High Life above Stairs (Drury Lane March 1775) :
acted at Tunbridge Sept. 1787 and at Steventon Christmas
1787 ; Life 64. See also COLMAN, and High Life below
Stairs.]
GAY : Fables : The Hare and Many Friends N A 14, quoted
J5 454.
Madame de GENLIS : Adelaide and Theodore (1783) E 461.
Emma probably read this author in English, as Miss Austen
herself did, see below.
[Alphonsine : or Maternal Affection. A Novel (second edition
1807), Letters 7 Jan. 1807 ' Alphonsine did not do. We
were disgusted in twenty pages, as, independent of a bad
translation, it has indelicacies ' &c. Les VeilUes du Chdteau,
Letters 8 Nov. 1800. This may have been read in French,
for the translation is called Tales of the Castle (Dublin 1785
is the earliest edition in the British Museum). Olympe et
Theophile, Letters 13 March 1815, is a part of the voluminous
VeilUes ; in Tales of the Castle it is styled Theophilus and
Olympia ; or the Errours of Youth and Age.]
William GILPIN : Three Essays : — on Picturesque Beauty ; —
on Picturesque Travel ; and on Sketching Landscape : to
which is added a Poem on Landscape Painting (1792),
Biographical Notice N A 7 ^ At a very early age she was
enamoured of Gilpin on the Picturesque'. Cf. Love and
300 GENERAL INDEX
Freindship (1790) p. 37 ' Gilpin's Tour to the Highlands '
(this is Observations, relative chiefly to Picturesque Beauty,
made in the Year 1776, on Several Parts of Great Britain ;
particularly the High-Lands of Scotland, 1789) ; History of
England (1791) p. 90 ' those first of Men Robert Earl of
Essex, Delamere, or Gilpin '.
[Thomas GISBORNE ? : Letters 30 August 1805 'I am glad
you recommended " Gisborne ", for having begun, I am
pleased with it, and I had quite determined not to read it '.
This is perhaps An Enquiry into the Duties of the Female
Sex by Thomas Gisborne, 1797.]
[William GODWIN : ' as raffish in his appearance as I could
wish every disciple of Godwin to be ', Letters 21 May 1801.]
GOETHE : The Sorrows of Werter, Love and Freindship
(1790), ed. 1922, p. 24. There were English versions earlier
than 1790 by Richard Graves (1780) and by J. Gifford (1789).
GOLDSMITH : History of England (?) M P 419 ; Vicar of
Wakefield E 29 ; When lovely woman E 387.
[J. A.'s annotated copy of the History of England, Life 29.]
[Mrs. Anne GRANT : Letters from the Mountains, being the
real correspondence of a Lady, between the years 1773 and
1807 (1807), Letters 20 Feb. 1807, 24 Jan. and 9 Feb. 1813.]
Richard GRAVES (author of The Spiritual Quixote) : Colu-
m£lla ; or. The Distressed Anchoret (1779), S S 103.
GRAY : the Elegy misquoted iV ^ 15 (see note), E 282.
[Miss Elizabeth HAMILTON: The Cottagers of Glenburnie
(1808), Letters 6 Nov. 1813.]
Hare and Many Friends : see GAY.
Sir John HAWKINS : Life of Johnson (1787), perhaps alluded
to P 23 (see note there).
[Laetitia Matilda HAWKINS : Rosanne ; or a Father's Labour
Lost (1814), Letter quoted in Memoir Ed. 2 p. 131.]
The Heir at Law: see COLMAN.
[Robert HENRY D.D. : The History of Great Britain, 6 vols.
4to, 1771-93 : Letters 12 Nov. 1800. Each of the ten
books is divided into seven chapters, the subjects being as
stated by Jane Austen ; the portion for Saturday is * the
history of the manners, virtues, vices, remarkable customs,
language, dress, diet and diversions of the people '.]
[High Life below Stairs (a farce, attributed to Garrick, but
I : OF LITERARY ALLUSIONS 301
probably by Townley — Genest. Drury Lane Oct. 1759 and
frequently revived, e. g. Covent Garden May 1810) : acted
at Steventon Jan. 1790, Life 66.]
Prince HO ARE : My Grandmother, a musical farce M P 123.
(Haymarket 1793 ; not again until 1823.)
John HOME : Douglas, a Tragedy M P 131 ; quoted 126.
• (Edinburgh 1756, Covent Garden 1757, and often revived,
e. g. Covent Garden 1797-1803).
[HOOK'S Lessons for Beginners, Letters 16 Sept. 1813 :
perhaps James Hook's Guida di Musica, being a complete
book of instructions for the Harpsichord or Pianoforte, 1790
new edition 1810.]
Horrid Mysteries : see WILL.
HUME : History N A 109.
[TJie Hypocrite (altered by Bickerstaffe from Cibber's version
of Tartuffe, The Nonjuror ; Drury Lane Nov. 1768 and often
revived, e. g. Lyceum Jan. 1810, Havmarket July 1814,
Drury Lane July 1814) : Letters 25 April 1811.]
[Illusiony or the Trances of Nourjahad (a Melodramatic
Spectacle — Genest. Drury Lane Nov. 1813) : Letters 5 March
1814.]
Mrs. INCHBALD : Lovers^ Vows ; From the German of
Kotzebue M P passim — see the present edition, pp. 474-538.
(Covent Garden Oct. 1798, May 1809 ; Drury Lane Nov.
1802; Haymarket May 1803.)
[Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage : a Tragedy ; adapted by
Garrick from Southerne's Fatal Marriage : Letters 28 Nov.
1814 ' Miss O'Neill in Isabella '.]
The Italian: see RADCLIFFE.
[William JEFFERSON : Entertaining Literary Curiosities,
consisting of Wonders of Nature and Art ; remarkable
characters; fragments, etc. (1808). This is no doubt the
work for which Edward and Jane Austen subscribed,
Letters 15 and 26 June 1808.]
JOHNSON : The Idler M P 156 ; the Dictionary N A 108 ;
Rasselas quoted M P 392. The passage in Love and Freind-
ship (ed. 1922, p. 29) which begins 'we left Macdonald Hall,
and . . . sate down by the side of a clear limpid stream '
seems clearly written in parody of a well-known passage
in A Journey to the Western Islands (1775, p. 86). The
knowledge that there were two Universities in Aberdeen
802 GENERAL INDEX
(Lesley Castle^ in Love and Freindship, p. 56) probably
came from Johnson's description of that city {Journey
p. 27). Se3 also BOSWELL.
[Her favourite moral writer in prose, Biogr. Notice N A 7.]
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid : £ 70, see note there ; the verses
were Garrick's.
[Lake of Killarney : see PORTER.] ♦
Francis LATHOM : The Midnight Bell. A German Story,
Founded on Incidents in Real Life (1798 D. N. B. ; first
edition not in British Museum), N A40 [Letters 27 Oct. 1798],
[Charlotte LENNOX : The Female Quixote ; or. The Adven-
tures of Arabella (1752), Letters 7 Jan. 1807.]
Matthew Gregory LEWIS : The Monk, A Romance, By
M. G. Lewis, Esq. M.P., Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula,
sagas, Nocturnos lemures, portentaque, Hor. Dreams, magic
terrors, spells of mighty pow'r. Witches, and ghosts who rove
at midnight hour. Waterford (1796). The London edition
of the same year is anonymous. N A 48.
Lovers' Vows : see INCHBALD.
Lord MACARTNEY : Journal of the Embassy to China (1807)
M P 156.
[Sir George Steuart MACKENZIE ? : see BARROW.]
Henry MACKENZIE : see Mirror.
[Margiana ; or Widdrington Tower (1808) : Letters 10 Jan.
1809.]
[Midas : an English Burletta (by O'Hara ; Covent Garden
Feb. 1764 and often revived, e.g. Covent Garden Sept. 1812,
Drury Lane June 1815) : Letters 15 Sept. 1813.]
The Midnight Bell : see LATHOM.
MILTON : N A 2,7 -, Paradise Lost quoted M P 43 ; L' Al-
legro quoted E 308 ' Hymen's saffron robe ' [Letters 14 Oct.
1813, 9 vSept. 1814].
The Mirror, edited by Henry Mackenzie, 1779-80 : iST ^ 241.
The Monk : see LEWIS.
Edward MOORE : The Gamester, a Tragedy M P 131 (Drury
Lane 1753, 1813 ; Covent Garden 1797, 1803).
IHannah MORE : Coelebs in Search of a Wife (1809), Letters
24 and 30 Jan. 1809 ; ' Mrs. (sic) H. More's recent publica-
tion', Letters 31 May 1811, is no doubt Practical Piety (1811).
!
I : OF LITERARY ALLUSIONS 303
Thomas MOSS : Poems on Several Occasions (Wolverhamp-
ton 1769), the first of which is The Beggafs Petition,
N A14<,
My Grandmother : see HO ARE.
The Mysterious Warning : see PARSONS.
Navy-list P 64.
The Necromancer : see TEUTHOLD.
The Orphan of the Rhine : see SLEATH.
[Sydney OWENSON (afterwards Lady Morgan) : Woman,
or Ida of Athens (1809), The Wild Irish Girl (1806), Letters
17 Jan. 1809.]
Mrs. PARSONS : The Castle of Wolfenbach, A German Story
(1793), The Mysterious Warning, A German Tale (1796),
"N A4X^.
[Captain (Sir Charles William) PASLEY, R.E. : Essay on
the Military Policy (sic, not Police as in Lord Brabourne's
edition of the Letters) and Institutions of the British Empire
(1810) : Letters 24 Jan., 9 Feb., 1813.]
[Mrs. PIOZZI : Letters to and from the late Samuel Johnson
LL.D. (1788) quoted (Vol. I, p. 270), Letters 9 Dec. 1808 ;
her epistolary style imitated, 11 June 1799.]
POPE : iV ^ 37 ; ' admiring Pope no more than is proper '
S S 47 ; To the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady quoted
iV ^ 15, Essay on Criticism quoted P 150.
[Essay on Man misquoted, ' Whatever is, is best ', Letters
20 Oct. 1813.]
[Anna Maria PORTER : Lake of Kittarney (1804) Letters
24 Oct. 1808.]
PRIOR : iV ^ 37 ; Henry and Emma P 116.
The Psalms misquoted E 174.
The Quarterly Review (first published February 1809) : M P
104.
Ann RADCLIFFE : The Romance of the Forest : Interspersed
with some Pieces of Poetry (1791), E 29 ; The Mysteries of
Udolpfio, a Romance ; Interspersed with some Pieces of
Poetry (1794), N A passim ; The Italian, or the Confessional
of the Black Penitents. A Romance (1797), N A 40.
[Letters 2 March 1814.]
Humphrey REPTON : author of Observations on the Theory
304 GENERAL INDEX
and Practice of Landscape Gardening (1803), alluded to,
M P 53, see note.
RICHARDSON : Sir Charles Grandison N A 109 ; No. 97
of The Rambler N A 30. [Harriet Byron, Letters 15 Sept.
1813, 11 Oct. 1813 ; J. A.'s intimacy with Sir Charles
Grandison, Memoir Ed. 2, p. 84, Biographical Notice N A 7.]
William ROBERTSON : N A 109.
Robin Adair : E 2i3.
Regina Maria ROCHE : The Children of the Abbey. A Tale
(1798 D. N. B. ; first edition not in British Museum), E 29 ;
Clermont, A Tale (1798), iV ^ 40.
The Romance of the Forest : see RADCLIFFE.
SCOTT : S S 47, 92 ; ' Mr. Scott and Lord Byron ',^P lOb;
107, 167 ; Marmion (1808) P 100 ; The Lady of the Lake
(1810) P 100 ; The Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805) quoted
M P 86, 281. [Marmion, Letters 20 June 1808, 10 Jan.
1809 ; parodied, 29 Jan. 1813 ; read aloud by J. A., Life
207 ; The Lady of the Lake, 6 June 1811 ; The Field of
Waterloo (1815), 23 Nov. 1815 ; ' Walter Scott has no
business to write novels' (i.e. Waverley, published 7 July
1814), 28 Sept. 1814 ; The Antiquary (1816), 16 Dec. 1816.
PauVs Letter to his Kinsfolk, 23 Nov. 1815 ' Scott's Account
of Paris ' ; the Memoir says ' this must have been PauVs
Letters to his Kinsfolk ; the Life suggests, alternatively,
John Scott's Paris Revisited in 1815 ; but it is clear that
J. A. was asking Mr. John Murray for a copy of one of
his own publications. Paul was published by him (and
others), Paris Revisited by Longmans.]
SHAKESPEARE : ' a part of an Englishman's constitu-
tion ' M P 338 ; Hamlet S S S5, M P i^l ; Henry VIII
M P 337 ; Julius Caesar M P 126 ; Macbeth M P 131 ;
Measure for Measure quoted A'^ ^ 16 ; Merchant of Venice
M P 123 ; Midsummer NighVs Dream quoted E 75 ;
Othello M P 131, quoted iV ^ 16 ; Richard III M P 123 ;
Romeo and Juliet misquoted E 400 ; Twelfth Night quoted
[King John : Letters 25 April 1811, Mrs. Siddons as Con-
stance (but it is not clear that she did act in that play ;
no performance is recorded by Genest at this date).
Macbeth : Letters 18 April 1811.
Merchant of Venice : Letters 2 and 5 March 1814 (Kean as
Shylock).]
I
I : OF LITERARY ALLUSIONS 305
SHERIDAN : The Rivals, The School for Scandal, M P 131.
The Critic is mentioned in The History of England (in Love
and Freindship, ed. 1922, p. 95).
[Thomas SHERLOCK : Letters 28 Sept. 1814 ' I am very
fond of Sherlock's Sermons and prefer them to almost
any ' : no doubt Several Discourses preached at the Temple
Church, 4 vols. 1754-8, and a fifth 1797 ; a new edition was
printed at the Clarendon Press in 1812 (and is still on sale).]
Eleanor SLEATH : The Orphan of the Rhine, a Novel (1798),
N A 'M) ; not in the British Museum Catalogue, which,
however, records the same author's Nocturnal Minstrel, or.
The Spirit of the Wood,
[James and Horace SMITH : Rejected Addresses : or the new
Theatrum Poetarum (1812), Letters 24 Jan. 1813 (' the two
Mr. Smiths of the City ').]
[SOUTHEY : Letters from England ; by Don Manuel Alvarez
Espriella (1807), Letters 1 Oct. 1808 ; Life of Nelson (1813),
11 Oct. 1813; The Poefs Pilgrimage to Waterloo (1816),
24 Jan. 1817.]
Tlie Spectator : iV ^ 37, 38.
STERNE : iV ^ 37 ; A Sentimental Journey quoted M P 99.
[Uncle Toby's Annuity {Tristram Shandy, Bk. Ill, ch. 22),
Letters 14 Sept. 1804.]
[The Sultan, or A Peep into the Seraglio (a farce attributed
to Bickerstaffe ; Drury Lane Dec. 1775, and revived
1782-96) : acted at Steventon Jan. 1790, Life 66.]
Peter TEUTHOLD : The Necromancer; or The Tale of the
Black Forest. Founded on Facts. Translated from the
German of Lawrence Flammenberg (1794), iV ^ 40,
THOMSON : 5 5 92 ; SpHng quoted N A 15.
[WEST, Mrs. : Alicia de Lacey (not in the British Museum)
Letters 28 Sept. 1814, 8 Sept. 1816.]
The Wheel of Fortune : see CUMBERLAND.
[Which is the Man (a comedy by Mrs. Cowley ; Covent
Garden Feb. 1782, May 1791) : acted at Tunbridge Sept.
1787 and at Steventon Christmas 1787, Life 64.]
William WHITEHEAD : The Je ne scai Quoi, a song quoted
M P 292 (probably from Dodsley's Collection Vol. II) ;
'also in A Collection of Letters, p. 122 of Love and Freind-
ship, ed. 1922.
806 GENERAL INDEX
Peter WILL : Horrid Mysteries : a Story, From the German
of the Marquis of Grosse (1796), N A 4^ (mentioned in
Chapter ii of Nightmare Abbey),
[Helen Maria WILLIAMS : A Narrative of the Events which
have lately taken place in France (1815), Letters 24 Nov.
1815.]
[The Wonder : a Woman Keeps a Secret (a comedy by
Mrs. Centlivre ; Drury Lane April 1714 and frequently
revived, e.g. Drury Lane Jan. 1787) : acted at Steventon
Christmas 1787, with a prologue by James Austen, Life 65.]
Allusions not traced
N ASl : we are told to ' despair of nothing we would attain ',
as ' unwearied diligence our point would gain ' — obviously
a rhymed couplet. But it has eluded the diligence of all my
helpers.
123 : Did you ever hear the old song, ' Going to one wedding
brings on another ? * — ^this could no doubt be found in the
old collections of popular songs.
P 144 : The elegant little clock on the mantle-piece had struck
' eleven with its silver sounds '. — Professor Grierson has
suggested (Times Literary Supplement, 8 Dec. 1921) that
this is a reminiscence of The Rape of the Lock, I. 13-18,
'And the pressed watch returned a silver sound ', If so the
quotation-marks are misplaced. But the proofs of Per-
suasion were not seen by the author.
307
GENERAL INDEX
II: OF REAL PERSONS
(not being authors)
Agricola N A 109.
Alfred the Great N A 109.
Astley's E 471. Philip Astley (1742-1814), equestrian per-
former, opened Astley's Royal Amphitheatre 1798.
Bonomi, Joseph, A.R.A. (1739-1808) S S 252.
Broadwood E 215, 241. John Broadwood (1732-1812) was
the founder of the house which made Miss Fairfax's
instrument.
Caractaeus N A 109.
Doge, the famous M P 209.
Elizabeth, Queen M P 56.
Gowland P 146 ; see note.
Gray's, jeweller, 41 Sackville-street S S 220 ; see note.
James the Second M P 86.
King, James A'^ A 25, 27 ; see note.
Lewis XIV M P 209.
Holland's P 174 ; see note.
Repton, Humphrey (1752-1818) MP 53, 55, 57. See the
Literary Index.
Severus M P 18.
Tattersal's P 8. The founder, Richard Tattersall (1724-1795)
was succeeded by his son * Edmund I ' (1758-1810).
Turner's M P 380 ; see note.
308
GENERAL INDEX
III : OF REAL PLACES
Alps iV^200.
America M P 119.
Antigua M P 30 &c.
Avignon S S 63,
Bahama P 70.
Bakewell PP256.
Banbury MP 193.
Barnet P P 275, 282.
BATH SS 208, 308 NA
passim MP 59,192, 203,
423, 425, 435 E 140, 183,
&c. P passim.
Argyle-buildings NA 87,
94.
Bath-street NA 217 P 222.
Beechen Cliff N A 106.
Belmont P 170, 240.
Bond-street NA 85, 114
P 141.
Broad-street N A 85.
Brock-street iV ^ 101.
Camden-place P 124.
Cheap-street N A 44.
Church-yard iV^ 43, 91.
Claverton Down iV ^ 61.
Crescent N A 35, 97.
Edgar's Buildings iV ^ 43.
Gay-street P 168.
Gravel-walk P 240.
Lansdown Crescent P 142.
Hill iV^47.
Road N A 85.
Laura-place iV ^ 86 P.149.
Lower Rooms iV ^ 25
Market-place N A 87.
Marlborough Buildings
P139.
Milsom-street N A39
P174.
MoUand's P174.
BATH, cont.
Octagon Room N A 51
P181.
Old Bridge P 135.
Pulteney-street A^ ^1 19
P178.
Pump Room A^^ 25 PISF;
221. ^
Queen-square P 42.
Rivers-street P 136.
Theatre P 180, 223.
Union-passage iV^ 44.
-street P 175, 239.
Upper Rooms iV ^ 20.
Walcot Church N A 46.
Westgate-buildings P 153.
White Hart E 186 P 216.
Beachey Head MP 245.
Bermuda P70.
Birmingham PP 240 £310.
Blaize Castle N A 84.
Blenheim PP 240.
Box Hill E 357 &c.
Brighton P P 219 &c, M P
203, 224, 252.
Bristol S S 280 E ISS &c,
NA 84.
Bromley P P 212.
Cambridge PP 200 MP 61
the Cape P 232.
Charmouth P 95, 130.
Chatsworth PP 239.
Cheltenham M P 199.
Clapham P P 274, 293.
Clifton N A 84, 116 E 307
P 52.
Cobham E 95.
Cork P 70.
Crewkheme P 105, 121.
Cromer JB 105.
Ill: OF REAL PLACES
309
Dartford S S 252.
Dawlish .SiS 251, 360 &c.
Deal P71, 170.
Devizes N A 122.
Dorking E 369.
Dovedale P P 239, 257.
Dresden N A 175.
Dublin £159.
East Bourne P P 300.
East Indies SS 51, 20Q MP
305 P22.
Epsom P P 274, 293.
Eton MP 21.
Exeter (New London Inn, S S
354) 6" 6^ passim P 40.
France N A 200.
Gibraltar MP 235 P 66.
Gretna Green PP 274, 291.
Hatfield P P 275.
Hereford N A 239.
Holyhead E 161,
Honiton S S 65, 324.
Huntingdon M P 3.
Italy MP 152 iV^ 107, 200.
Kenelworth P P 240.
Keynsham NA 88.
Kingston E 29, 32, 244, 245.
Kingsweston N A Sis E 274,
354.
the Lakes P P 154, 237, 382.
Lisbon P 68.
Liverpool PP 220 M P 178.
LONDON
Astley's E 471.
Baker Street M P 49.
the Bank N A 113.
Bartlett's Buildings, Hol-
born S S 217, 286.
the Bedford N A 96.
1781.5
LONDON, cont.
Bedford Square MP 434.
Berkeley-street SS 153,
169, 301.
Bond-street SS 115, 164,
183, 204, 326 E 56.
Brunswick Square E 9 &c.
Cheapside P P 36.
Conduit-street 5 iS 170.
Drury-lane S S 330.
Edward Street P P 322.
Exeter Exchange S S 221,
Gracechurch Street P P
141 &Q,
Grosvenor Street PP 116,
147.
Hanover-square SS 110,
301 M P 416.
Harley-street S S 230.
Hill Street M P 46, 300.
House of Commons P 8.
Kensington Gardens, S S
271.
the little Theatre P P 319.
Manchester-street E 318.
Pall Mall S S 199, 275.
Park-street SS 1^1,
Portman-square S S 153.
Sackville-street SS 220.
St. Clement's PP 318.
St. George's Fields NA
113.
St. James's PP 25, 122,
161, 384.
St. James's-street S S 290.
St. Paul's M P 212.
Tattersal's P 8.
the Temple 55103 P199.
the Tower N A 113.
Wimpole Street MP 394
&c.
Lyme P 94 foil.
Marlborough 5 5 318.
Matlock P P 239, 257.
the Mediterranean MP 152,
232, 236.
oo
810
GENERAL INDEX
Mickleham E 369.
Minehead P 171.
Newbury M P 376.
Newcastle P P 317, 327, 330,
336.
Newmarket M P 426.
Northampton iV^ 113^ MP
passim,
the North Seas P 71.
North Yarmouth P 92, ItO.
Oxford SS 103, 275, 353
P P 240 iV ^ 32, 64, 107,
201,206 MP21, 94, 376
JB188.
the Peak P P 239.
Peterborough M P 255, 282.
Petty-France N A 156.
Pinny P 95.
Plymouth S S S7 &c. P 66.
Portsmouth MP III passim
P 69, 108.
Putney N A 122.
Pyrenees N A 200.
Ramsgate P P 201, 211, 248
MP 51.
Reading S S 304
Richmond NA120 MP 435
&c. E 317 &c.
St. Domingo P 26.
Salisbury N A 29, 232.
Scarborough P P 342.
Scotland (i. e. Gretna Green)
SS 206 PP 273 &c.
MP 442.
Seve (Sevres) NA175.
Sicily MP 254.
Sidmouth P 105.
the Sound P 66.
South End E 101.
Spithead M P 232.
the Streights P70.
Swisserland, Switzerland N A
200 £364.
Taunton P 21, 76.
Tetbury iV^45.
the Texel M P 380
Tintern Abbey MP 152.
Trafalgar P 22.
Tunbridge (Wells) iV^ 33
M P 199 P 203.
Tuscany NA 83.
Twickenham MP 57, 434,
450, 455.
Up Lyme P^5.
Venice E 363.
Warwick P P 240.
West Indies M P 5, 24>, 51,
197, 236 P 65, 210.
Westerham PP 62.
Western Islands P 67.
Westminster S S 251 MP
61, 212, 469.
Weymouth S S 114> MP
114, 121 E 96, 146, 160
&c.
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