:

ARTES
1837
SCIENTIA
LIBRARY
VERITAS
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
E-PLURIBUS.UNUM
STUSBOR
SIQUAERIS PENINSULAM AMOENAM
CIRCUMSPICE
17236
NORTHANGER ABBEY
A NOVEL
BY JANE AUSTEN
NEW EDITION
GENERAL LIBRAGA
Juiversi
WICHIGA


LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1877
019
116
949
LONDON: PRINTED BY
AND CO., NEW-STREET
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
SQUARE
SPOTTISWOODE

NORTHANGER ABBEY.
VOLUME THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.

O one who had ever seen Catherine Morland
in her infancy, would have supposed her
born to be a heroine. Her situation in life,
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 fea-
tures;—so much for her person;—and not less unpropitious
B
2
Northanger Abbey.
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 dor-
mouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a rose-bush.
Indeed, she had no taste for a garden: and if she 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 were quite as extraordinary. 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 Peti-
tion;' 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 when-
ever 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 more-
over 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.
Northanger Abbey.
3
At fifteen, appear-
Such was Catherine Morland at ten.
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 hast
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 train-
ing 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 Thomson, that
It is a delightful task
To teach the young idea how to shoot.
B 2
4
Northanger Abbey.
And from Shakspeare she gained a great store of infor-
mation-amongst the rest, that
That
-Trifles light as air,
Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
As proofs of Holy Writ.
The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
In corporal 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 throwing a whole
party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her
own composition, she could listen to other people's per-
formance 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
portray. 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 transient. 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 must and will happen to throw a hero in her
way.
Northanger Abbey.
5
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 befall 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.
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 cha-
racter is meant to be, that her heart was affectionate, her
disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or affecta-
tion 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 en-
tertained no notion of their general mischievousness, and
6
Northanger Abbey.
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 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 re-
markable, however, that she neither insisted on Catherine's
writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of trans-
mitting 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 con-
sistent with the common feelings of common life, than with
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 a 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 in-
troduce 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 ap-
proached 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 Pulte-
ney-street.
Northanger Abbey.
7
It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs.
Allen, that the reader may be able to judge, in what man-
ner 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 im-
prudence, 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 gentlewoman,
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 entrée 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
more care for the safety of her new gown than for the
8
တ
Northanger Abbey.
1
comfort of her protégée, 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 un-
wearied 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
company 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 acquaintance
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 disap-
pointment-she was tired of being continually pressed
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
Northanger Abbey.
9
of her fellow-captives; and when at last arrived in the
tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness 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.'
'Ay, 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 any body, 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, 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.
ΙΟ
Northanger Abbey.
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.'
'Very agreeable, indeed,' she replied, vainly endeavouring
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.
however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding her,
no whisper of eager enquiry ran round the room, nor was
she once called a divinity by any body. Yet Catherine was
in very good looks, and, had the company only seen her
three years before, they would now have thought her ex-
ceedingly handsome.
Not one,
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
Northanger Abbey.
II
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 perfectly satisfied with
her share of public attention.
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 gentle-
man-like 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 arch-
ness and pleasantry in his manner which interested, though
it was hardly understood 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 concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have
been very negligent-but are you now at leisure to satisfy
me in these particulars? If you are, I will begin directly.'
12
Northanger Abbey.
'You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.'
'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.
C
Really!' with affected astonishment.
'Why should you be surprised, sir?"
Why, indeed!' said he, in his natural tone; 'but some
emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and
surprise is more easily assumed, and not less reasonable
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 whether
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; wore my sprigged muslin robe with
blue trimmings-plain black shoes-appeared to much
advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-
witted man, who would make me dance with him, and dis-
tressed 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 with a very agreeable young man, introduced
Northanger Abbey.
13
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 wish 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 tenor of your life in Bath without
one? How are the civilities and compliments 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 young ladies' ways as you
wish to believe me. It is this delightful habit of journalising
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 may 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, doubtingly,
'whether ladies do write so much better letters than gentle-
men. 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 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.'
14
Northanger Abbey.
6
They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen. My dear Ca-
therine,' 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 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, mea-
sured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than eight;
Northanger Abbey.
15
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 lis-
tened 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 authorised 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 inclination
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 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 enquiry 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
very respectable family in Gloucestershire.
* Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, vol. ii. Rambler.
16
Northanger Abbey.
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 was 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 they were tired; and how pleasant
it would be if we had any acquaintance here.'
6
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 di-
ligence 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 hers to
be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognised the
features of her former schoolfellow 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 they had been contented to
know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years.
Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after ob-
serving how time had slipped away since they were last.
Northanger Abbey.
17
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 enquiries 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 re-
spected in their different stations 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 eyes 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 in-
troduce 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 ob-
served aloud to the rest, 'How excessively like her brother
Miss Morland is!'
'The very picture of him indeed!' cried the mother; and
'I should have known her any where for his sister!' was re-
peated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment
Catherine was surprised; 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
C
18
Northanger Abbey.
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 ac-
quainted 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 ex-
pressions 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 her about the room. Cathe-
rine was delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaint-
ance, 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, how-
ever, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at
least four years better informed, had a very decided ad-
vantage 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 dis-
cover 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 ad-
miration from Catherine, to whom they were entirely new;
and the respect which they naturally inspired might have
been too great for familiarity, had 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 accom-
pany 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
Northanger Abbcy.
19
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 in
dulgent mother. Her eldest daughter had great personal
beauty; and the younger ones, by pretending to be as hand-
some 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 following
chapters-in which the worthlessness of lords and attornies
might be set forth; and conversations, which had passed
twenty years before, be minutely repeated.
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 enquiring 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
Allens eagerly joined each other; and, after staying long
C 2
20
Northanger Abbey.
enough in the Pump-room to discover that the crowd was
insupportable, and that there was not a genteel face to be
scen, 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 Isa-
bella, 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 nowhere
to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuc-
cessful, in morning lounges or evening assemblies; 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 so becoming in a hero,
threw a fresh grace, in Catherine's imagination, around hiș
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 charm-
ing 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 clergy-
man, 'for she must confess herself very partial to the profes-
sion;' and something 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
Northanger Abbey.
21
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 themselves could
be; never satisfied with the day unless she spent the chief
of it by the side of Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called con-
versation; but in which there was scarcely ever any ex-
change of opinion, and not often any resemblance of sub-
ject, 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 passed so rapidly through every gradation of increasing
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 un-
generous and impolitic custom, so common with novel
writers, of degrading, by their contemptuous censure, the very
performances 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 per-
mitting 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 patronised 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 thread-
bare 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 corpora-
22
Northanger Abbey.
'
tion 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 eulogised by a
thousand pens,-there seems almost a general wish of decry-
ing 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 novel reader-I
seldom look into novels-Do not imagine that I 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 moment-
ary 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 produced 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
statement 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.
Northanger Abbey.
23
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, discre-
tion, 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 na-
turally 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
a 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 ribands 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 be
a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina'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
24
Northanger Abbey.
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 Captain 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 show them the difference. Now, if I
were to hear any body speak slightingly of you, 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,
Northanger Abbey.
25
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 disclaimed
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 understood. Where the
heart is really attached, I know very well how little one
can be pleased with the attention of any body else. Every
thing is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate
to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your
feelings.'
'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
talk of it. I am
thought so.'
again! My dearest creature, do not
sure you would be miserable if you
'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, 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 surprise 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-.
26.
Northanger Abbey.
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! O 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? Well, 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 themselves of so
much importance! By the by, 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 com-
plexion-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 de-
scription.'
Betray you! What 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 re-
verting to what interested her at that time rather more than
any thing 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.
know, there are two odious
staring at me this half hour.
of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They
will hardly follow us there.'
Do you
young men who have been
They really put me quite out
Northanger Abbey.
27
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,
You said you should like to
and looking at my new hat?
see it.'
Catherine readily agreed.
'Only,' she added, 'perhaps
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 show 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 compliment, 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 reasoning;
and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Thorpe,
and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off im-
mediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two
young men.
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
}
28
Northanger Abbey.
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, 'De-
lightful! 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 her brother with the liveliest 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 feelings, 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 meantime, had been giving
orders about the horses, soon joined them, and from him
Northanger Abbey.
29
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 al-
lowed 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.
'Three 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 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.'
6
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
30
Northanger Abbey.
1
for a Christ-church man, a friend of mine, a very good sort
of fellow; he ran it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was con-
venient 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 Ox-
ford, 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." "O! 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, complete; 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 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 enquiry now took place into the intended movements
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
Northanger Abbey.
31
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.'
d-
'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; 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! ay, 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
32
Northanger Abbey.
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 apologise
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 I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs.
Radcliffe's; her novels are amusing enough; they are
worth reading; some fun and nature in them.'
Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,' said Catherine,
with some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
'No, sure; was it?
was it? Ay, I remember, so it was I was
thinking of that other stupid book, written by that woman
they made 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 non-
sense 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
Northanger Abbey.
33
•
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 somewhere 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.
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 en-
gaging 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 di-
rectly 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.'
D
34
Northanger Abbey.
'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 un-
affected 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 understanding!
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 Allens, 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 me.'
James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his
conscience for accepting it too, by saying with perfect sin-
cerity, 'Indeed, Catherine, I love you dearly.'
Enquiries 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. Alien, invited by the former to dine with them, and
summoned by the latter to guess the price and weigh the
Northanger Abbey.
35
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 imagination 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
dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to bestow
even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already
engaged for the evening.
CHAPTER VIII.
In spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, 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 evening.' 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 whis
pered, 'My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you,
D 2
36
Northanger Abbey.
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 dancing, 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 im-
mediately 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 mentioned a wife, and he
had acknowledged a sister. From these circumstances
Northanger Abbey.
37
"
sprang the instant conclusion of his sister's now being by his
side; and, therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike pale-
ness, 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. 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 likewise,
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
38
Northanger Abbey.
to dance with him. This compliment, delightful as it
was, produced severe mortification to the lady; and, in
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 pre-
vent 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 gentleman,
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 moralising 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 good-
ness; Miss Morland, with the real delicacy of a generous
mind, making light of the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes,
satisfied with having so 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 stylishness, of Miss
Thorpe's, had more real elegance. Her manners showed
Northanger Abbey.
39
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
ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every little
trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at once by her
appearance and 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 very 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 acquain-
tance, by informing 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 with-
out 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 Cathe-
rine, 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 her
head,' whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James;
'it is Mr. Tilney's sister.'
1
'O heavens! you don't say so! Let me look at her this
moment. What a delightful girl! I never saw any thing
half so beautiful! But where is her all-conquering brother?
Is he in the room? Point him out to me this instant, if he
40
Northanger Abbey.
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.'
'I
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.
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.'
My
'Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men
have a point to carry, you never stick at any thing.
sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade your brother how
impossible it is. Tell him, that it would 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
Northanger Abbey.
4I
stand by me.' And off they went to regain their former
place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away;
and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportu-
nity 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 you,' 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 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, in
a whisper, to Catherine, 'I dare say, she thought I was
speaking 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.'
42
Northanger Abbey.
'Do not you?—then let us walk about and quiz people.
Come along with me, and I will show you the four greatest
quizzes 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.'
1
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 ex-
treme point of her distress; for when there, she imme-
diately fell into a sound sleep, which lasted nine hours, and
from which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits,
with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of
her heart was to improve her acquaintance 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 dis-
courses 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
17
Northanger Abbey.
43
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. 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 driving 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
44
Northanger Abbey.
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 ad-
vice, 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 admiration 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 dote 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. Cathe-
rine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure
aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately
Northanger Abbey.
45
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 discernment and
dexterity with which he had directed his whip. Catherine,
though she could not help wondering 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 of so excellent a coachman ;
and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the
same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity
towards any unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevi-
table pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly
fast, gave herself 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 understand him-and
he repeated his question, adding, in explanaticn, 'Old Allen,
the man you are with.'
'Oh, Mr. Allen, you mean.
rich.'
'And no children at all?'
'No-not any.'
Yes, I believe he is very
'A famous thing for his next heirs.
father, is not he?'
'My godfather-no.'
He is your god-
'But you are always very much with them.'
'Yes, very much.'
'Ay, 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
46
Northanger Abbey.
disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous
good thing for us all.'
'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
Mine is famous good stuff, to be sure.
the common way.
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 fre-
quent 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
could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she
:
Northanger Abbey.
47
}
readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally
settled between them, without any difficulty, that his equi-
page was altogether the most complete of its kind in Eng-
land, 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 rickety 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 how
to reconcile two such very different accounts of the same
thing; for she had not been brought up to understand the
propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle as-
sertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will
lead. Her whole family were plain matter-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
48
Northanger Abbey.
moment what they would contradict the next.
She re-
flected 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 sub-
ject; 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 am-
biguous; and, joining to this the consideration that he
would not really suffer his sister and his friend to be ex-
posed 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 her-
self 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 difficulties, which he
calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.
Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself,
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 al-
together completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for
he was Isabella's brother; and she had been 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 unceasingly 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.
Northanger Abbey.
49
When they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, the astonishment
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, in-
credible, 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 then, would have been
equally inconceivable, incredible, 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 false-
hood 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 moment'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 despon-
dency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.
Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the
busy 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?"
'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 to-
gether. 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
E
50
Northanger Abbey.
there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney
walking 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?'
But they are
'Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now.
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 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 likely to do very well.'
Catherine enquired 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
Northanger Abbey.
51
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.
CHAPTER X.
(
THE Allens, 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; your brother and
I were agreeing this morning, that, though it is vastly well
to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for
E 2
52
Northanger Abbey.
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 Til-
ney 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 over 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, 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.
Northanger Abbey.
53
1
They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion
or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such
whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with 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 dis-
engage 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 ac-
quainted, than she might have had courage to command,
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 remained 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 exclama-
tion of Catherine's towards the close of their conversation,
which at once surprised 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
surprised 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 en-
gage lodgings for us.'
'That 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?'
54
Northanger Abbey.
'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 acquaintance'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 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
insensibility 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.
Northanger Abbey.
55
เ
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 feelings
very different from what had attended her thither the
Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engage-
ment 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 centred
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 fidgeted 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, 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 in-
tently 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 suddenly found herself
addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney
56
Northanger Abbey.
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 pos·
session of a place, however, when her attention was claimed.
by John Thorpe, who stood behind her. 'Heyday, 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 lobby 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; and when they see you
standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me
famously.'
'Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a de-
scription 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 backed.
I would not take eight hundred guineas for them. Fletcher
1
Northanger Abbey.
57
and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire against the
It is so d-d uncomfortable living at
next season.
an inn.'
This was the last sentence by which he could weary
Catherine's attention, for he was just then borne 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 stayed with you half a
minute longer. He has no business to withdraw 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
choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with
the partners or wives of their neighbours.'
'But they are such very different things!'
'That you think they cannot be compared together.'
To be sure not. People that marry can never part,
but must go and keep house together. People that dance
only stand opposite to each other in a long room for half
an hour.'
'And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing.
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 en-
gagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage
of each; and that when once entered into, they belong ex-
clusively 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 imagi-
nations 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
58
Northanger Abbey.
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 agreeableness, the
compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the
fan and the lavender water. That, I suppose, was, the differ-
ence 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; 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 gentle-
man 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 !'
'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 agree-
able as when I had the honour of making the enquiry
before?'
'Yes, quite—more so, indeed.'
'More so !-Take care, or you will forget to be tired of
You ought to be tired at the end of
it at the proper time.
six weeks.'
'I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here
six months.'
Northanger Abbey.
59
(
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 find
greater sameness in such a place as this, than in my own
home; for here are a variety of amusements, 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 rationally
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.'
6
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.
lectual poverty! However, when
again, you will have more to say.
'What a picture of intel- :
you sink into this abyss
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 suppose I should
бо
Northanger Abbey.
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 relish of balls and plays,
and every-day sights, is past with them.'
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 gentleman
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 appearance, 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 everything 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 eager-
ness 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
Northanger Abbey.
6I
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 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 happiness, 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.
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 thing 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 improve-
ment 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.'
62
Northanger Abbey.
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 umbrella!'
'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 convinced
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 morn-
ing. 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 comfortable.'
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 surprise: 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
Northanger Abbey.
63
there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture,
must yet be a question.
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
surprised 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, however,
I cannot go with you to-day, because I am engaged; 1
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 delight-
fully. Oh, I am in such ecstasies 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! ay, and Blaize 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?'
64
Northanger Abbey.
'The finest place in England,-worth going fifty miles at
any time to see.'
k
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 galleries?'
'By dozens.'
'Then I should like to see it; but I cannot,—I 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 chestnuts?'
'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 ankle-deep
every where.'
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?'
Northanger Abbey.
65
'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 by?'
'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 thinking, that they
might have gone with very little inconvenience. 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 coun-
terpoise 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
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 Build-
ings, 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
F
66
Northanger Abbey.
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, how-
ever, and during the length of another street, she entreated
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, en-
couraged 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 alike in his life, and would hardly
give up the point of its having been Tilney himself.
6
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 furni-
Northanger Abbey.
67
ture, 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 mean while, they
proceeded on their journey without any mischance; and
were within view of the town of Keynsham, 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 conversation; 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,' replied Thorpe, rather angrily;
and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way
back to Bath.
such a d
we might
'If your brother had not got
d beast to
drive,' said he soon afterwards,
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
pace. Morland is a fool 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?'
6
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 something
in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse,
about its being a dd thing to be miserly; and that if
people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did
not know who could; which Catherine did not even endea-
vour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been
the consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and
less disposed either to be agreeable herself, or to find her
F 2
68
Northanger Abbey.
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 enquired 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 heartrending 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. Cathe-
rine 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 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 one's self. 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
'You will quite
dull, my dearest creature,' she whispered.
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
Northanger Abbey.
69
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
delightful 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 her-
self, if she get another good night's rest in the course of the
next three months.
CHAPTER XII.
'MRS. ALLEN,' said Catherine, the next morning, 'will there
be any harm in my calling on Miss Tilney 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 churchyard, 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 enquired 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 con-
70
Northanger Abbey.
firm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss
Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mor-
tification, 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 with-
hold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in expec-
tation of seeing her there-but no one appeared at them.
At the bottom of the street, however, she looked back
again-and then, not at a window, but issuing from the
door, she saw Miss Tilney herself: she was followed by a
gentleman, 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
ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers
might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness-to
what a degree of unforgiveness 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 continuance: 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 au-
thority, 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 sup-
posed she had any wretchedness about her.
On the begin-
ning 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
Northanger Abbey.
71
F
1
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 notice was never withdrawn
from the stage during two whole scenes. At length, how-
ever, 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 him 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 re-
solving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment
towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to
him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to en-
lighten 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 you 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,
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smile into his countenance, and he replied in a tone which
retained only a little affected reserve, '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!'
Northanger Abbey.
73
'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
surprise, 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 surprise 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 enquiry, as
she pointed them out to her companion. He knew nothing
about it; but his father, like every military man, had a very
Iarge 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 enquiry 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 a fellow as ever lived.'
'But how came you to know him?'
'Know him! There are few people much about town
74
Northanger Abbey.
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 by; 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—I 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 have 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, thap could
have been expected.
!
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 relin-
quished; 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
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75
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 deter-
mined, and Thorpe's approbation secured, Catherine only
remained to be apprised 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 acqui-
escence 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 promised 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 go.' This availed nothing. The same arguments
assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they
would 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 affec-
tionate manner; addressing her by the most endearing
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 Cathe-
rine 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.
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Northanger Abbey.
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 excessively! 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 friend-
ship by strangers does cut me to the quick, I own.
Tilneys seem to swallow up every thing else.'
These
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 mean while, had
applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miser-
able at such a sight, could not help saying, 'Nay, 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 pro-
posed 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.'
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77
'Thank ye,' cried Thorpe ;
to drive my sisters about, and
do not go, d- me if I do.
driving you.'
but I did not come to Bath
look like a fool. No, if you
I only go for the sake of
"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; sometimes
not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with
supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked
within Isabella's, though their hearts were at war.
moment she was softened, at another irritated; always dis-
tressed, but always steady.
At one
'I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,'
said James; ‘you were not used to be so hard to per-
suade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my
sisters.'
'I hope I am not less so now,' she replied, very feelingly;
'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 were 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 convenient 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.
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Northanger Abbey.
'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 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
Tilneys 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; 'wherever
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 de-
termined 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
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79
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 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 immediately 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 ex-
planation 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
great hurry to explain it—I did not care what you thought
of me--I would not stay for the servant.'
a
The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated
by this speech, soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine
found that John Thorpe had given the message; and Miss
Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly surprised
by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in
resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively 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.
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Northanger Abbey.
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 infor-
mation to her mind, and made her think with pleasure that
he might be sometimes depended on. To such anxious at-
tention 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 apartment herself. 'What did
William mean by it? He should make a point of enquiring
into the matter.' And if Catherine had not most warmly
asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William 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 surprised 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
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81
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 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. The 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 thinking? Do not
you think these kind of projects objectionable?
'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 im-
proper 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
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Northanger Abbey.
best for you in my power. But one must not be over par-
ticular. Young people will be young people, as your good
mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first
came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, 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 persuade.'
'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 choose 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 pro-
mise 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?
Northanger Abbey.
83
;
CHAPTER XIV.
With Mr. Allen
event: but she
THE next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected
another attack from the assembled party.
to support her, she felt no dread of the
would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was
painful; and was heartily rejoiced, therefore, at neither see-
ing 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 im-
pertinent intrusion, to disconcert their measures, my heroine
was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though
it was made with the hero himself. 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 sur-
prised.
'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-gentlemen
read better books.'
"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not
pleasure in a good novel, must 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 remember
finishing it in two days—my hair standing on end the whole
time.'
'Yes,' added Miss Tilney, and I remember that you
undertook to read it aloud to me; and that when I was
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84
Northanger Abbey.
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-particularly 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
enquiry 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 in-
correctness of language, and now he is taking the same
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.'
Northanger Abbey.
85
'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 refinement ;-people
were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice.
But now every 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
It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that
kind of reading?'
best.
'To say the truth, I do not much like any other.'
'Indeed!"
plays, and things of that
But history, real solemn
Can you?'
That is, I can read poetry and
sort, and do not dislike travels.
history, I cannot be interested in.
'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, you think,' said Miss Tilney, are not happy
in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without
raising interest. I am fond of history-and am very well
contented to take the false with the true. In the princi-
pal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histo-
ries and records, which may be as much depended on, I
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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 embellishments, 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 Dr. 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 remark-
able! 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 civilised state can deny; but in behalf of our most dis-
tinguished 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 synonymous.'
'You think me foolish to call instruction a torment;
but if you had been as much used as myself to hear poor
little 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 synonymous
words.'
'Very probably. But historians are not accountable for
?
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87
the difficulty of learning to read; and even you yourself,
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 a 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 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 jus-
tice to men, that though, to the larger and more trifling
part of the sex, imbecility in females is a great enhance-
ment 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
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ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young
man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. 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 pic-
turesque 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, dis-
tances, and second distances; side-screens and perspec-
tives; 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 un-
worthy 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 enclosure 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 dis-
quisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by
Catherine, who, in rather 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 na-
ture?'
'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.'
But I hope
'You speak with astonishing composure!
your friend's accounts have been exaggerated; and if such
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89
a design is known beforehand, proper measures will un-
doubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming to
effect.'
'Government,' 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 gene-
rosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have
no patience with such of my sex as disdain to let them-
selves 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 observa-
tion, 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 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 publication
which is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo volumes,
two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontis-
piece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern—do you
understand?—And you, Miss Morland-my stupid sister
has mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of
expected horrors in London; and instead of instantly con-
ceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such
words could relate only to a circulating library, she imme-
diately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men
assembling 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 Captain Frederick Tilney, in
the moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked
off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. For-
give her stupidity. The fears of the sister have added to
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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 intolerably
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 understanding
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 sometimes sur-
prise, 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 respectful form, as
much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for the
pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after the
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91
next.
No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the
only difficulty on Catherine's was in concealing 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 riband, which must be bought with-
out a moment's delay, walked out into the town, and in
Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe, as she was
loitering towards 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.'
6
6
Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing
this part of the arrangement.
'Oh yes,' rejoined the other, 'Maria is gone.
'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 answer-
ing, ‘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 overtook
us.'
Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne
should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to
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console her, she bade her adieu without much uneasiness,
and returned home, pleased that the party had not been pre-
vented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing
that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isa-
bella to resent her resistance any longer.
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 con-
ceive. 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
hurrying 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,
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how could I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed
he would not drive her, because she had such thick ankles.
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 Isa-
bella, embracing Catherine, thus began:-'Yes, my dear
Catherine, it is so, indeed; your penetration has not de-
ceived you. Oh, that arch eye of yours!-it sees through
every thing.'
Catherine replied only by a look of wondering igno-
rance.
6
'Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,' continued the other,
compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you per-
ceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so
you guessed it the moment you had my note ?—Sly crea-
ture!—Oh, 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 yesterday'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 one of those
grand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly
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afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not
express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend.
The happiness of having such a sister was their first effu-
sion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.
Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did, in the
prospect of the connection, 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 at-
tached 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 doted 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 anybody 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 cer-
tainly 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 de-
scribing 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 you.'
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
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consider her. Her brother, she found, was preparing to set
off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation
and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agi-
tation 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 immediately.'
'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!'
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 dis-
interestedness 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 remembrance 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 settle in
London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village
would be ecstasy. 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
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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 realisation 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 en-
gagement as the most fortunate circumstance 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 unprivi-
leged younger sisters. To Catherine's simple feelings, this
odd sort of reserve seemed neither kindly meant, nor con-
sistently supported; and its unkindness she would hardly
have forborne 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 in-
genuity; on one side in the mystery of an affected secret,
on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.
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97
Catherine was with her friend again the next day, en-
deavouring 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 expectation drew
near, Isabella became more and more desponding, 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 control, and she called
herself without scruple the happiest of mortals.
Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter,
her son, her visiter, and could have embraced half the in-
habitants of Bath with satisfaction. Her heart was over-
flowing 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 only bestowed on
Mr. Morland the high commendation 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, con-
taining 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 pro-
perty were to be resigned, or funded money made over, was
a matter in which her disinterested 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
H
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acquaintance at Fullerton, 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-by.' Catherine wished him a good journey.
Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the window,
fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-
occupied.
He
'Shall not you be late at Devizes?' said Catherine.
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? I 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 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 forc-
ing 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 mon-
strous deal of good-nature, and it is not only good-nature,
/nivers
HAL MERO

WICHIGA
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99
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 disagreeable.'
'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 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
H 2
ΙΟΟ
Northanger Abbey.
anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away, leaving
him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy
address, and her explicit encouragement.
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, 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 surprising in-
sensibility. The disclosure, 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 THE FIRST VOLUME.
Northanger Abbey.
ΙΟΙ
VOLUME THE SECOND.
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
not afforded. Instead of finding herself improved in ac-
quaintance 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, in-
vitations, 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 per-
fectly 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 ac-
countable 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,
and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as
Miss Tilney's she had never heard of in her life! Not to
do the honours of her house with common good breeding!
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Northanger Abbey.
To behave to her guest with such superciliousness! 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 incon-
stancy 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 en-
tertain 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 agree-
able, 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. 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
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103
manners of either brother or sister; and she did not credit
their being any pride in their hearts. The evening re-
warded her confidence; she was met by one with the same
kindness, and by the other with the same attention, as here-
tofore: 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 man-
ners 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 find-
ing it possible. From the latter circumstance it may be
presumed, 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.
At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards
them again, and, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction, 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 Tilney must have
heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he
now hastened to communicate 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.
104
Northanger Abbey.
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 suppose 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
it is not, How is such a one likely to be in-
fluenced? 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 I 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?-yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintel-
ligible.'
'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
Northanger Abbey.
105
predictions were verified. There was a something, however,
in his words which repaid her for the pain of confusion;
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 ex-
planation 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 surprise to myself on that head. You bid
me be surprised on your friend's account, and, therefore, 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 open attrac-
tion; 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 con-
fidential discourse till all the dancing was over; but then, as
they walked about the room arm in arm, Isabella thus ex-
plained herself:—' I do not wonder at your surprise; and I
am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle!-Amusing
enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would have
given the world to sit still.'
'Then why did not you?'
гоб
Northanger Abbey.
'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 introduced him, might take it ill if I did not;
and your dear brother, I am sure he would have been miser-
able if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it
is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to hist
nonsense; and then, being such a smart young fellow, I
saw every eye was upon us.'
'He is very handsome, indeed.’
'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. Amazingly 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 assignment 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 un-
welcome, no more than he had expected, was borne by him
without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been
Northanger Abbey.
107
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 congratulated Isabella on having
every thing so pleasantly settled.
'It is very charming, indeed,' said Isabella, with a grave
face.
'Mr. Morland has behaved vastly handsome, 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
for I am sure he must be an
Four hundred is but a small
and by, I dare say he will;
excellent, good-hearted man.
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 can-
not 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 life. 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.'
'I am very
Catherine was hurt by these insinuations.
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
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Northanger Abbey.
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 Cathe-
rine, you have found me out. There's the sting. The long,
long, endless two years and a half that are to pass before
your brother can hold the living.'
6
6
we
Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,' said Mrs. Thorpe,
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
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, en-
deavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought other-
wise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with
the most gratifying kindness.
CHAPTER II.
THE Allens 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 engagement 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 com-
prised in another three weeks, and her happiness being
certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a
Northanger Abbey.
109
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 disappointed
of some friends' arrival whom he expected to 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 form-
ing 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 dis-
appointed 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
IIO
Northanger Abbey.
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 your-
self. Modesty such as yours-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 our
side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.'
Northanger Abbey !-These were thrilling words, and
wound up Catherine's feelings to the highest point of
ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly re-
strain its expressions within the language of tolerable calm-
ness. 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 approbation, 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 ob-
tained 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 per-
fect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry
at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hur-
ried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland,
relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had
already intrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the pro-
priety of an acquaintance which had been formed under
their eye, and sent, therefore, by return of post, their ready
Northanger Abbey.
III
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.
Everything seemed to co-operate for her advantage. By
the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, 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 visiter, 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 abbeys 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 visiter 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 tradi-
tional 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 borne. 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 enquiries she was eager to make of Miss
II2
Northanger Abbey.
Tilney; but so active were her thoughts, that when these
enquiries were answered, she was hardly more 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 disso-
lution, of a large portion of the ancient building still making
a part of the present dwelling although the rest was de-
cayed, or of its standing low in a valley, sheltered from the
north and east by rising woods of oak.
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 con-
versation, as she walked along the Pump-room one morn-
ing, 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 everybody entering at either, 'it is so out of the way.'
Catherine, observing that Isabella's eyes were continually
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 un-
easy, 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?'
Northanger Abbey.
113
'I am not looking for any body. One's eyes must be
somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have of
fixing mine, when my thoughts are a hundred miles off.
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 me, 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 com-
pliments. 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 you 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 innocence
of every thought of Mr. Thorpe's being in love with her,
and the consequent impossibility of her having ever in-
tended 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 anything like it, there must be some unaccountable
mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that
I
114
Northanger Abbey.
kind, you know!-and, as I ever wish to be believed, I
solemnly protest that no syllable of such 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
anything 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 yours, Isabella, I am sure; but you know very
well that if I could think of one man more than another,
silent. 'My dear
friend, you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose
your brother cares so very much about me.
know, we shall still be sisters.'
he is not the person.' Isabella was
And, you
'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 de-
termined against poor John-is not it so?"
'I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly
never meant to encourage it.'
'Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you
any further. John desired me to speak to you on the sub-
ject, and therefore I have. But I confess, as soon as I read
his letter, I thought it a very foolish, imprudent business,
Northanger Abbey.
115
and not likely to promote the good of either; for what were
you to live upon, supposing 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.'
C
You do acquit me then of anything wrong? You are
convinced that I never meant to deceive your brother, never
suspected him of liking me till this moment?'
6
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 your-
self. 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 anything 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 w
you; for people seldom know what they would be at, young
men especially, they are so amazingly changeable and in-
constant. 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 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;
I 2
116
Northanger Abbey.
and I believe 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!'
C
'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.
enough for me.'
That would be
'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 showed 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 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
Northanger Abbey.
117
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 conver-
sation, 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 won-
der. That he should think it worth his while to fancy him-
self 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.
CHAPTER IV.
A FEW days passed away, and Catherine, though not allow-
ing herself to suspect her friend, could not help watching
her closely. The result of her observations was not agree-
able. Isabella seemed an altered creature. When she saw
her indeed surrounded only by their immediate 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 occasionally come across her; but
II8
Northanger Abbey.
had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread a
new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Cathe-
rine 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 altera-
tion became too positive to be passed 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 con-
cerned. 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 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 unkindness; but for remon-
strance, either opportunity or comprehension 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 Gloucestershire 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 entreating him to make
known her prior engagement.
(
My brother does know it,' was Henry's answer.
'Does he?—then why does he stay here?'
Northanger Abbey.
119
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 everybody'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 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.'
I 20
Northanger Abbey.
After a short pause, Catherine resumed with 'Then you
do not believe Isabella so very much 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 occa-
sion, I assure you I can only guess at.'
'Well?'
'Well! Nay, if it is to be guess-work, let us all guess for
ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is piti-
ful. 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' consideration,
'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 un-
comfortable 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 only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain
Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? or, is her heart con-
stant 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
You have no doubt of the mutual
uneasy as you can.
attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon
Northanger Abbey.
121
it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them;
dépend upon it that no disagreement between them can be
of any duration. 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 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 contradiction, 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.
122
Northanger Abbey.
1
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 enjoy-
ment 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 away
some of her unpleasant feelings: but still she was far from
being at ease; nor could the incessant attentions of the
General himself entirely re-assure her. Nay, perverse 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 tran-
quillity was not 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, 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 was
Northanger Abbey.
123
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 in-
quietude of his mind, on Isabella's account, might, by keep-
ing him long sleepless, have been the real cause of his rising
late. It was the first time of her being decidedly in his com-
pany, 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 afterwards, 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 di-
rectly, 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 gentleman 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 re-
vived as they drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney she
felt no restraint; and, with the interest of a road entirely
new to her, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, she
caught the last view of Bath without any regret, and met
with every milestone before she expected it. The tedious-
ness 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 anything to see, next followed; and her
admiration of the style in which they travelled, of the
124
Northanger Abbey.
fashionable chaise and four, postilions handsomely liveried,
rising so regularly in their stirrups, and numerous outriders
properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent in-
convenience. 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 anything was said but by
himself; the observation 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 surprised 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 mention of such
a plan, and her first thought was to decline it; but her
second was of greater deference for General Tilney's judg-
ment: he could not propose anything 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 trouble-
some 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 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 disturbance, without
parading to her, or swearing at them; so different from the
only gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to com-
pare 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.
Northanger Abbey.
125
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 uncom-
fortably 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 ne-
cessarily 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 dis-
agreeable.'
He smiled, and said, 'You have formed a very favourable
idea of the Abbey.'
'To be sure I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like
what one reads about?'
'And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a
building such as "what one reads about" may produce?
Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels 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) intro-
duced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged
apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair
126
Northanger Abbey.
you ?
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
'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 por-
trait 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 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 courtesies 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 like 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
i
Northanger Abbey.
127
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 ex-
tinguished) 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 in-
stantly 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 art-
fully constructed 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.'
6
No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any
such thing.'
'What! not when Dorothy has given you to understand
that there is a secret subterraneous communication between
your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, 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 instrument 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 repassing 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 un-
noticed. 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
anything 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 manuscript,
—you hasten with the precious treasure into your own
128
Northanger Abbey.
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 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 dis-
cerned even an antique chimney.
She knew not that she had any right to be surprised, 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, however, for such considerations.
A sudden scud of rain driving full in her face, made it im-
possible for her to observe anything 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
i
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129
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 awful foreboding of future misery to her-
self, 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 shown
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 given her the con-
sciousness. 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 ornaments over it of the
prettiest English china. The windows, to which she looked
with peculiar dependence, from having heard the General
talk of his preserving them in their Gothic form with reve-
rential 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, perceiving 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, however, 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 surprise, 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
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Northanger Abbey.
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 quadrangle, 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.
CHAPTER VI.
A MOMENT'S glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her
apartment was very unlike the one which Henry had en-
deavoured 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
instantaneously 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 posible haste, and she was
preparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat
had conveyed for her immediate accommodation, 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 montionless 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,
Northanger Abbey.
131
I will look into it-and directly too-by daylight. 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 carved 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; and, on the centre of the lid, was a
mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over
it intently, but without being able to distinguish anything
with certainty. She could not, in whatever direction she
took it, believe the last letter to be a T; and yet that it
should be anything else in that house was a circumstance to
raise no common degree of astonishment. If not originally
theirs, 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 dismissed 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 dare 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 supernatural means, the lid
in one moment should be thrown back. With this spirit she
sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her.
K 2
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Northanger Abbey.
Her resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her
astonished eyes the view of a white cotton counterpane, pro-
perly folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed
possession!
She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise, when
Miss Tilney, 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 then 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 blush-
ing, tying her gown, and forming wise resolutions with the
most violent despatch. Miss Tinley gently hinted her fear
of being late; and in half a minute they ran down stairs
together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, 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, con-
cerned 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 absolutely 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 fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was
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133
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, how-
ever, 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 wind had been rising at in-
tervals 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, and such storms ushered
in; and most heartily did she rejoice in the happier circum-
stances 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
V
134
Northanger Abbey.
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 bed-room 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 herself; 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 cowardly, as if she wished for the
protection of light after she were in bed.' The fire there-
fore 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 con-
spicuous enough, had never caught her notice before.
Henry's words, his description of the ebony cabinet which
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135
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 re-
markable 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 anything, 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 mysterious !-the door was
still immovable. She paused a moment in breathless won-
der. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in
torrents against the windows, and everything 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 myste-
riously 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 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 anything
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,
136
Northanger Abbey.
-each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched,
and in not one was anything found. Well read in the art of
concealing a treasure, the possibility 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 anything 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 diffi-
culty occurring in the management of this inner lock as of
the outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as hither-
to, was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of
paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity, ap-
parently 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 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 distinguishing 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 immovable 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 foot-
steps and the closing of a distant door struck on her affrighted
Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat
stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand,
ear.
Northanger Abbey.
137
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 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 dis-
tant 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 unknowingly
fell fast asleep.
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 suc-
ceeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously with
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Northanger Abbey.
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 manuscript 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 expenditure scarcely more interesting, in letters,
hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball. And the larger
sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramp
line, 'To poultice chestnut mare,' a farrier's bill! Such was
the collection of papers (left, perhaps, as she could then
suppose, by the negligence 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
1
Northanger Abbey.
139
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 acci-
dent 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, as it had
been pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the evening before.
Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope of her
having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch refe-
rence 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 false-
hood, 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
hyacinth.'
6
'And how might you learn? By accident or argument?
'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
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Northanger Abbey.
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 sen-
timent 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 was saved the embarrassment of attempting an
answer, by the entrance of the General, whose smiling com-
pliments announced a happy state of mind, but whose gentle
hint of sympathetic early rising did not advance her com-
posure.
The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Cathe-
rine'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 Dres-
den or Sèvres. 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 understand
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,
:
Northanger Abbey.
141
Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching
another glimpse of his figure. 'This is a somewhat 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 im-
partial 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 walls sur-
rounding 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 pro-
fession 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 un-
answerable.
Something had been said the evening before of her being
shown 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
142
Northanger Abbey.
at her service.
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 courtesied 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
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 stopped 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 under-
stood. Why was Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there
be any unwillingness on the General's side to show 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
Northanger Abbey.
143
by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the
steep woody hills rising behind to give it shelter were beauti-
ful even in the leafless month of March. Catherine had
seen nothing to compare with it; and her feelings of de-
light were so strong, that, without waiting for any better
authority, she boldly burst forth in wonder and praise.
The General listened with assenting 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 churchyard and orchard. The walls seemed count-
less 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 enclosure. The General was flattered by
her looks of surprise, 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 vexa-
tions, however, attending such a garden as his. The utmost
care could not always secure the most valuable fruits.
pinery had yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr.
Allen, he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well
as himself.'
The
'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 with-
out being vexed in some way or other, by its falling short of
his plan.
'How were Mr. Allen's succession-houses worked?' de-
scribing the nature of his own as they entered them.
144
Northanger Abbey.
'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 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 wonder-
ing, 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, pro-
posed it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss
Morland were not tired.
not tired. But where are you going,
Eleanor? Why do you choose 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 per-
haps, 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 dis-
approbation, 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 ex-
cused 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 companion,
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 re-
membrance showed itself directly in her altered countenance,
and in the attentive pause with which she waited for some-
thing more.
'I used to walk here so often with her,' added Eleanor:
Northanger Abbey.
145
At
' though I never loved it then as I have loved it since.
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!'
'A great and increasing one,' replied the other, in a low
voice. I was only thirteen when it happened; 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 firm-
ness, '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 impos-
sible 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 handsome?
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, handsome 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 it
had no place. Soon after her death I obtained it for my
own, and hung it in my bedchamber, where I shall be
happy to show it you: it is very like.' Here was another
L
146
Northanger Abbey.
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.
:
CHAPTER VIII.
An hour passed away before the General came in, spent on
the part of his young guest, in no very favourable considera-
tion of his character. This lengthened absence, these
solitary rambles, did not speak a mind at ease, or a con-
science void of reproach. At length he appeared; and,
whatever might have been the gloom of his meditations,
he could still smile with them. Miss Tilney, understanding
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 delay,
Northanger Abbey.
147
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 dignified
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 ante-
chamber, into a room magnificent both in size and furniture
-the real drawing-room, used only with company of con-
sequence. 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 cen-
tury. When the General had satisfied his own curiosity, in
a close examination of every well-known ornament, they
proceeded 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
storehouse of knowledge, by running over the titles of half
a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of apartments
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 surrounded 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
L 2
148
Northanger Abbey.
apartment, without comprehending their connection, or
being able to turn aright when she left them; and, lastly,
by passing 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 communi-
cation 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 in-
vention 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 bene-
factors of the convent.
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 Ge-
neral'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 uni-
formity of architecture had been thought necessary. Ca-
therine 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 will-
ingly 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 comforts by which the
labours of her inferiors were softened, must always be gra-
tifying, he should make no apology for leading her on.
They took a slight survey of all; and Catherine was im-
pressed, beyond her expectation, by their multiplicity and
Northanger Abbey.
149
their convenience. The purposes for which a few shape-
less pantries, and a comfortless scullery, were deemed suf-
ficient at Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate
divisions, commodious and roomy. The number of ser-
vants continually appearing, did not strike her less than
the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some
pattened girl stopped to courtesy, or some footman in disha-
bille sneaked off. Yet this was an abbey! How in-
expressibly different in these domestic arrangements from
such as she had read about-from abbeys 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 staircase might
be ascended, and the beauty of its wood and 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
shown successively into three large bedchambers, with their
dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up:
everything that money and taste could do, to give comfort
and elegance to apartments, 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 Fuller-
ton.' She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply re-
gretted 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,
150
Northanger Abbey.
and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first door
to the left, in another long reach of gallery, when the Ge-
neral, 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 symptoms of a winding staircase, believed
herself at last within the reach of something worth her
notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the gallery,
that she would 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
additional 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 something
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
-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 ?'
Northanger Abbey.
151
'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 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 Montoni!
What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings 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 unseasonableness 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 importance.
among them she was heartily glad to be dismissed; though
it was a look from the General not designed for her obser-
vation which sent his daughter to the bell. When the butler
would have lit his master's candle, however, he was for-
bidden. 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.'
152
Northanger Abbey.
J
repose.
But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent com-
pliment, could win Catherine from thinking, that some very
different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper
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: something was to be done which
could be done only while the household slept; and the pro-
bability that Mrs. Tilney 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 sud-
denly struck her as not unlikely, that she might that morning
have passed near the very spot of this unfortunate 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 staircase 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 staircase 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
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153
too far; but they were supported by such appearances as
made their dismissal impossible.
The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the
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 corresponding 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 con-
vinced 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.
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 afternoon 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 anything 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
154
Northanger Abbey.
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 persevered 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 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 bedchamber. It represented a very lovely
woman, with a mild and pensive countenance, 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 con-
sider, 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
Northanger Abbey.
155
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 inured 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, in his loudest tone, resounded
through the building, giving to his daughter the first intima-
tion of his presence, and to Catherine terror upon terror. An
attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive move-
ment on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to
have escaped his eye; and when her friend, who with an
apologising 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 commiserating the
state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons 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 protection of visiters.
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 con-
sideration of policy she should be allowed to suppose her-
self 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
156
Northanger Abbey.
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, 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.
She
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 stop-
ping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in ques-
tion. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no
sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe
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.
saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, a handsome dimity
bed, arranged as unoccupied with a housemaid's care, a
bright Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes and neatly painted.
chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily
poured through two sash windows! Catherine had ex-
pected 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 emo-
tions of shame. She could not be mistaken as to the room;
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157
but how grossly mistaken in every thing else!—in Miss
Tilney's meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment,
to which she had 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 in-
clination 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 continued, not attending to his address, 'how
came you here?-how came you up that staircase ?'
'How came I up that staircase!' he replied, greatly
surprised. 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 countenance
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, ‘ask how
you came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a
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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.
come back till to-morrow.'
I thought you did not mean to
'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 showed 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 re-
garding her. 'Have you looked into all the rooms in
that passage?'
'No; I only wanted to see
must go and dress.'
Is not it very late? I
'It is only a quarter past four,' showing 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 surprised. Isabella promised
so faithfully to write directly.'
'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
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159
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 comfor-
table 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 proceeded 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 a better woman. But it is not often
that virtue can 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 hers, '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 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. Dur-
ing the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (we were
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Northanger Abbey.
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 com-
mand. 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 have formed a sur-
mise 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; where every
man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies ;
and where roads and newspapers 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.
t:
Northanger Abbey.
161
CHAPTER X.
THE Visions of romance were over. Catherine was com-
pletely awakened. Henry's address, short as it had been,
had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance
of her late fancies than all her several disappointments 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 imagination 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, shown 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 enquiry if she was well. The
formidable 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 sooth-
ing 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 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
M
162
Northanger Abbey.
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 charm-
ing 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. Catherine 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, per-
haps, 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 surprised 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 per-
fectly amiable.
Her mind made up on these several points, and her re-
solution 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
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163
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 abso
lutely 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 me-
mento 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 Isa-
bella 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 as-
sured 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 pro-
tested 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 pro-
mised again; and when she promised a thing, she was so
scrupulous in performing it! this made it so particularly
strange!
For nine successive mornings Catherine wondered over
the repetition of a disappointment which each morning be-
came 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 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
M 2
164
Northanger Abbey.
between Miss Thorpe and me.
I left her and Bath yester-
I shall not enter into par-
You will soon
day, never to see either again.
ticulars, they would only pain you more.
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 consent 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 de-
clared 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 Cathe-
rine, 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 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 surprise 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
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165
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 reflection,
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 waive 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 further was said for a few minutes; and then,
speaking through her tears, she added, '1 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 dis-
tress.'
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Northanger Abbey.
>
'I have one favour to beg,' said Catherine, shortly after-
wards, 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 in-
creasing astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the
truth, and something, in which Miss Thorpe's name was in-
cluded, 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 de-
serted my brother, and is to marry yours! 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 that any
one you love should be unhappy; but my surprise 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-' recollecting, 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
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167
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 sur-
prise, began to enquire into Miss Thorpe's connections and
fortune.
'Her mother is a very good sort of woman,' was Cathe-
rine's answer.
'What was her father?'
'A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.'
'Are they a wealthy family?'
6
'No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any for-
tune 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 happi-
ness 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 engagement 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 de-
clarations, 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 se-
cured. 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
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Northanger Abbey.
behaved so ill by our family, she may behave better by
yours. 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.'
And upon my
'You think it is all for ambition, then?
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 known and
studied.'
'My own disappointment and loss in her is very great;
but, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever re-
cover it.'
'Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at
present; but we must not, in our concern for his sufferings,
undervalue yours. 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;
whose regard you can place dependence; or whose counsel,
in any difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?'
on
'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
Northanger Abbey.
169
very much relieved by this conversation, that she could not
regret her being led on, though so unaccountably, to men-
tion the circumstance which had produced it.
CHAPTER XI.
FROM this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the
three young people; and Catherine found, with some sur-
prise, 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
connection, 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 pro-
perty 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 particular 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 dis-
interested 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 bro-
ther 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 occurred to her as highly expedient
that Henry should lay the whole business before him as it
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Northanger Abbey.
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 em-
ployments 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 neighbourhood. 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 tell-
ing Henry, one morning, that when he next went to Wood-
ston, they would take him by surprise 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.'
+
'Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those
days. There is no need to fix. You are not to put your-
self at all out of your way. Whatever you may happen to
have in the house will be enough. I think I can answer
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171
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 afterwards 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 neigh-
bours, 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 Wednesday, which bad weather,
or twenty other causes, may 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.'
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Northanger Abbey.
'Oh! not seriously!'
Ay, 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 own.
Good-by. 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 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 Isa-
bella 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 shrubberies-
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 con-
sideration of the building. What a revolution in her ideas!
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173
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 two
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 pre-
ferred it to any place she had ever been at, and looked with
great admiration at every neat house above the rank of a cot-
tage, 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 substan-
tial stone house, with its semicircular 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 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 dis-
appointed him.
'We are
'We are not calling it a good house,' said he.
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
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Northanger Abbey.
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-propor-
tioned size, and handsomely fitted up as a dining parlour;
and on their quitting it to walk round the grounds, she was
shown, 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 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 consciousness,
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 embar-
rassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental
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175
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
village, with a visit to the stables to examine some improve-
ments, 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!
She could not but observe 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 daughter's
observations were of a different kind. They had seldom seen
him eat so heartily at any table but his own; and never before
known him so little disconcerted 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 expec-
tations, 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.
CHAPTER XII.
THE next morning brought the following very unexpected
letter from Isabella :-
'My dearest Catherine,
Bath, April
'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 ·
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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 al-
ways 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
anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I be-
lieve if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for
you are dearer to me than anybody 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 particularly abhor,
has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I
must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you 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 after-
wards, 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 un-
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177
happy 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 some-
thing 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 determined they should not say I shut my-
self up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by
the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised 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 Mit
chell 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 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 Ca-
therine, 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 disgusting 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
N
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Northanger Abbey.
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, hav-
ing a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If
the effect 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, be-
cause 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 yours, 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.'
Northanger Abbey.
179
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.
CHAPTER XIII.
Soon after this, the General found himself obliged to go to
London for a week; and he left Northanger, earnestly regret-
ting that any necessity should rob him, even for an hour, of
Miss Morland's company, and anxiously recommending the
study of her comfort and amusement to his children, as their
chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine
the first experimental conviction that a loss may be some-
times a gain. The happiness with which their time now
passed-every employment voluntary, 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 about some-
thing very different, to start forth her obligation of going
N 2
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Northanger Abbey.
away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much
concerned. She had 'hoped for the pleasure of her com-
pany 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 that, 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.
Henry was not able to obey his father's injunction of
remaining wholly at Northanger, in attendance on the ladies,
during his absence in London; the engagements of 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 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
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181
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 surprise 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 unpleasant impres-
sion 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 materially 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
certainly 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 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 tranquillised
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 some
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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 messenger from
Woodston!'
'You are mistaken, indeed,' returned Eleanor, looking at
her most compassionately,—' it is no one from Woodston.
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 to your con-
tinuing 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 fort-
night. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I
cannot 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.
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183
Can you, when you return from this lord's, come to Fuller-
ton?'
6
It will not be in my power, Catherine.'
'Come when you can, then.'
Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts re-
curring to something more directly interesting, she added,
thinking aloud, 'Monday-so soon as Monday; and you
all go. Well, I am certain of ——— I 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 of 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 sat down, breathless and speechless. 'I could
hardly believe my senses when I heard it; and no dis-
pleasure, no resentment that you can feel at this moment,
however justly great, can be more than I myself—but I
must not talk of what I felt. Oh that I could suggest
any thing in extenuation! Good God! what will your
father and mother say? After courting you from the pro-
tection 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 arn 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,
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Northanger Abbey.
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 important;
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 Allens, still
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, un-
attended!'
'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 in-
solence 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
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185
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 incom-
prehensible 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 tra-
velling; 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 misfor-
tune could provoke such ill-will against a person not con-
nected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it.
Heavily passed 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 mourn-
fully superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had
foundation in fact, her fears in probability; and with a
mind so occupied in the contemplation of actual and natu-
ral evil, the solitude of her situation, the darkness of her
chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt and con-
sidered 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
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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 Eleanor, with
more good-will than experience, intent upon filling the
trunk. When every thing was done, they left the room,
Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend to
throw a parting glance on every well-known 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 break-
fast 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 circumstances 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! 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 her-
self; 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 musı
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
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187
one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. Let me
have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fuller-
ton, 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. 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 speaking 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 accommodation, it proved to be
exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject
till that moment; but, upon examining her purse, was con-
vinced 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 remembrance 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
handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the
chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door.
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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 uncon-
scious, 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 expressions 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 each.
Designedly, at least, Henry could not 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
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189
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 justi-
fication 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 im-
petuous 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, alter-
nately 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 enquiries, 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 neigh-
bourhood 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 conclusion;
for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to
destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best,
even after an absence such as hers-an eleven weeks' ab-
sence. What had she to say that would not humble herself
and pain her family; that would not increase her own grief
by the confession of it; extend an useless resentment, and
perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguish-
ing 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 unfavourably, on their father's account, it would
cut her to the heart.
190
Northanger Abbey.
With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for
the first view of that well-known spire which would an-
nounce 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 postmasters 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.
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.
Her
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 whatever might be the distress of Catherine's mind
as she thus advanced towards the Parsonage, and whatever
the humiliation 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 imme-
diately 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.
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191
old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage.
Happy the glance that first distinguished 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 Cathe-
rine'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 enquiry 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 quick-
ness in catching, or bitterness in resenting affronts; but
here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be
overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily par-
doned. 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 feelingly, neither as a gentle-
man 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
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oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due
course of useless conjecture, 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, ex-
claiming 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?'
Ca-
'I am sorry for the young people,' returned Mrs. Mor-
land; 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.'
therine 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 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!
Northanger Abbey.
193
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 justi-
fied, for already did Catherine reproach herself with having
parted from Eleanor coldly; with having never enough.
valued her merits or kindness; and never enough com-
miserated her for what she had been yesterday left to en-
dure. 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 com-
pose a letter which might at once do justice to her senti-
ments 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 un-
dertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance;
and, after long thought and much perplexity, to be very
brief was all that she could determine on with any con-
fidence of safety. The money, therefore, which Eleanor
had advanced was enclosed 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 consola-
tion. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few
years could only put into Catherine's head what might hap-
pen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her.
O
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Northanger Abbey.
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 despatched 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 en-
tirely without fortune; and now, after such behaviour, 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 Ca-
therine could listen to: another sentence might have en-
dangered 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 a heart light, gay, and independent; looking forward
to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and free from the ap-
prehension 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 Allens with all the kindness
which her unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady
affection, would naturally call forth; and great was their
surprise, 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 surprise yesterday
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195
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
man: but we are so glad to have
And it is a great comfort to find
helpless creature, but can shift very
he must be a very odd
her amongst us again!
that she is not a poor
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 immedi-
ately made use of again by herself. His wonder, his con-
jectures, and his explanations, became in succession hers,
with the addition of this single remark —'I really have
not patience with the General' to fill up every acci-
dental 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 at-
tended the third repetition; and, after completing 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 show 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
I must show
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.
02
196
Northanger Abbey.
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 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 affec-
tion 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 con-
firming her own opinions by the justness of her own re-
presentations, 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.
CHAPTER XV.
CATHERINE'S disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor
had her habits been ever very industrious; but, whatever
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
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197
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 with-
out 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 as
Northanger; that would be turning your visit into an evil,
indeed. Wherever you are, you should always be con-
tented; but especially at home, because there you must
spend the most of your time. I did not quite like, at break-
fast, 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
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Northanger Abbey.
again, without knowing it herself, into languor and listless-
ness; 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 at-
tacking 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 avocations 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 enter-
ing the room, the first object she beheld was a young man
whom she had never seen before. With a look of much
respect, he immediately rose; and being introduced to her
by her conscious daughter as 'Mr. Henry Tilney,' with the
embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologise for his
appearance there, acknowledging that after what had passed
he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and
stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland's
having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intru-
sion. 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; thanking him for such an atten-
tion to her daughter; assuring him that the friends of her
children were always welcome there; and entreating him to
say not another word of the past.
He was not ill inclined to obey this request; for, though
his heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mild-
ness, 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,
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199
:
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, therefore, 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 despatched 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 expressed
his intention of paying his respects to them; and, with a
rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to
show 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 gentle-
man, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs.
Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary considera-
tion in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that
he might have some explanation to give of his father's
behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to com-
municate 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 him-
self; 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
200
Northanger Abbey.
2
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 circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and
dreadfully derogatory of a 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 hap-
piness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the
ecstasies of another tête-à-tête; and before it was suffered
to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned
by parental authority in his present application. On his
return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met
near the Abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed
in angry terms 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 rejec-
tion, 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 de-
ception 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 com-
pany 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.
Northanger Abbey.
201
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
enquired 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
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, therefore, from the
first over-rated, had, ever since his introduction 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
(circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal
openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to
these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being
wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland's being under their
care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge-
202
Northanger Abbey.
of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution
was soon formed. Already had he discerned 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 hist
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 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 explanation 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 ;—con-
fessed 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 sub-
stance 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 in-
capable 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 oppor-
Northanger Abbey.
203
tunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which
their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better them-
selves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, schem-
ing race.
The terrified General pronounced the name of Allen with
an enquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his
error. The Allens, 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. En-
raged 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 mur-
dering 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 conscience could make
it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock,
could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his pur-
pose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound
as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and
believing that heart to be his own which he had been
&
204
Northanger Abbey.
directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent,
no reversing degree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his
fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted.
He steadily refused to accompany his father into Here-
fordshire, 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 disagree-
ment. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary
hours were required to compose, had returned almost in-
stantly to Woodston; and on the afternoon of the follow-
ing day. had begun his journey to Fullerton.
CHAPTER XVI.
MR. and MRS. MORLAND'S surprise 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 recom-
mendations; 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
housekeeper, to be sure,' was her mother's foreboding re-
mark; 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 ex-
pressly forbad the connection, they could not allow them-
selves to encourage it. That the General should come
forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very
heartily approve it, they were not refined enough to make
5
Northanger Abbey.
205
any parading stipulation; but the decent appearance of con-
sent 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 con-
siderable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements,
eventually 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 surprised 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 fulness
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 enquire.
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 hasten-
ing 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!'
206
Northanger Abbey.
'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 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 gentle-
man was not of recent origin; and he had been long with-
held 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; in-
dependent 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 unneces-
sary; 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 sub-
sequent 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 expectations, that it greatly con-
tributed 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, that the Fullerton estate, being
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207
entirely at the disposal of its present proprietor, was con-
sequently 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 authorised soon followed: Henry and
Catherine were married, the bells rang, and every body
smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth 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 professing myself, moreover, con-
vinced 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 ten-
dency of this work be altogether to recommend parental
tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.
THE END.
PERSUASION
BY JANE AUSTEN
NEW EDITION

LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1877

રો
PERSUASION.
VOLUME THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.

IR 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, Elizabeth, 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, November 5.
1789; Mary, born November 20. 1791.'
Precisely such had the paragraph originally stood from
the printer's hands; but Sir Walter had improved it by
adding, for the information of himself and his family, these
P 2
212
Persuasion.
words, after the date of Mary's birth, Married, December
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 family, in the usual terms: how it had been
first settled in Cheshire, how mentioned in Dugdale, serv-
ing 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 concluding with the arms
and motto,—' Principal seat, Kellynch Hall, in the county
of Somerset,' and Sir Walter's handwriting 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 pro-
moted 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
Persuasion.
213
1
Three girls, the two
awful legacy for a
when she was called on to quit them.
eldest sixteen and fourteen, was an
mother to bequeath; an awful charge rather to confide to
the authority and guidance of a conceited, silly father.
She had, however, one very intimate friend, a sensible,
deserving woman, who had been brought, by strong attach-
ment to herself, to settle close by her, in the village of
Kellynch; and on her kindness and advice Lady Elliot
mainly relied for the best help and maintenance of the good
principles and instruction which she had been anxiously
giving her daughters.
This friend and Sir Walter did not marry, whatever might
have been anticipated on that head by their acquaintance.
Thirteen years had passed away since Lady Elliot's death,
and they were still near neighbours and intimate friends; and
one remained a widower, the other a widow.
That Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and
extremely well provided for, should have no thought of a
second marriage, needs no apology to the public, which is
rather apt to be unreasonably discontented when a woman
does marry again, than when she does not; but Sir Walter's
continuing in singleness requires explanation. Be it known,
then, that Sir Walter, like a good father (having met with one
or two private disappointments in very unreasonable appli-
cations), 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 six-
teen, to all that was possible of her mother's rights and con-
sequence; 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 import-
ance, by becoming Mrs. Charles Musgrove; but Anne, with
an elegance of mind and sweetness of character, which
must have placed her high with any people of real under-
standing, was nobody with either father or sister; her word
had no weight; her convenience was always to give way—
she was only Anne.
To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly
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Persuasion.
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 in-
dulged 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 con-
tentment. 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 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
Persuasion.
215
winters' revolving frosts had seen her opening every ball of
credit which a scanty neighbourhood afforded; and thirteen
springs shown 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 satis-
fied 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 enjoy-
ment as in her early youth; but now she liked it not.
Always to be presented with the date of her own birth, and
see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister, made
the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had
left it open on the table near her, 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 disappointed
her.
She had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had
known him to be, in the event of her having no brother, the
future baronet, meant to marry him; and her father had
always meant that she should. He had not been known to
them as a boy; but soon after Lady Elliot's death, Sir
Walter had sought the acquaintance; and though his over-
tures had not been met with any warmth, he had persevered
in seeking it, making allowance for the modest drawing back
of youth; and, in one of their spring excursions to London,
when Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr. Elliot had been
forced into the introduction.
He was at that time a very young man, just engaged in
the study of the law; and Elizabeth found him extremely
agreeable, and every plan in his favour was confirmed. He
was invited to Kellynch Hall: he was talked of and expected
all the rest of the year; but he never came. The following
216
Persuasion.
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 inde-
pendence 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 Tat-
tersal's, and twice in the lobby of the House of Commons.'
His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little
regarded. Mr. Elliot had attempted no apology, and shown
himself as unsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family,
as Sir Walter considered him unworthy of it: all acquaintance
between them had ceased.
This very awkward history of Mr. Elliot was still, after
an interval of several years, felt with anger by Elizabeth,
who had liked the man for himself, and still more for being
her father's heir, and whose strong family pride could see
only in him a proper match for Sir Walter Elliot's eldest
daughter. There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her
feelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal.
Yet so miserably had he conducted himself, that though she
was at this present time (the summer of 1814) wearing black
ribands for his wife, she could not admit him to be worth
thinking of again. The disgrace of his first marriage might,
perhaps, as there was no reason to suppose it perpetuated
by offspring, have been got over, had he not done worse;
but he had, as by the accustomary intervention of kind
friends, they had been informed, spoken most disrespect-
fully of them all, most slightingly and contemptuously
of the very blood he belonged to, and the honours which
were hereafter to be his own. This could not be pardoned.
Such were Elizabeth Elliot's sentiments and sensations;
such the cares to alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness
and the elegance, the prosperity and the nothingness, of her
scene of life—such the feelings. to give interest to a long,
uneventful residence in one country circle, to fill the vacan-
Persuasion.
217
cies 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 blame-
less 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 pro-
posed these two branches of economy,—to cut off some un-
necessary charities, and to 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. Eliza-
beth had nothing to propose of deeper efficacy. She felt
herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her father; and they
were neither of them able to devise any means of lessening
their expenses without compromising their dignity, or relin-
quishing 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
218
Persuasion.
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 re-
duce their expenditure, without involving the loss of any
indulgence of taste or pride.
CHAPTER II.
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 reference to the excellent
judgment of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense
he fully expected to have just such resolute measures ad-
vised 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 attachments, most correct in
her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with man-
ners 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
Persuasion.
219
her a little to the faults of those who possessed them. Her-
self 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
obliging landlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the
father of Anne and her sisters, was, as being Sir Walter, in
her apprehension entitled to a great deal of compassion and
consideration under his present difficulties.
They must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt. But
she was very anxious to have it done with the least possible
pain to him and Elizabeth. She drew up plans of economy,
she made exact calculations, and she did, what nobody else
thought of doing, she consulted Anne, who never seemed
considered by the others as having any interest in the
question. She consulted, and in a degree was influenced
by her, in marking out the scheme of retrenchment, which
was at last submitted to Sir Walter. Every emendation of
Anne's had been on the side of honesty against importance.
She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete re-
formation, 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 singu-
larity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as
it always does of our conduct. I have great hope of our
prevailing. We must be serious and decided; for, after all,
the person who has contracted debts must pay them; and
though a great deal is due to the feelings of the gentleman,
and the head of a house, like your father, there is still more
due to the character of an honest man.'
This was the principle on which Anne wanted her father
220
Persuasion.
to be proceeding, his friends to be urging him. She con-
sidered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear away the
claims of creditors, with all the expedition which the most.
comprehensive retrenchments could secure, and saw no
dignity in any thing short of it. She wanted it to be pre-
scribed, 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 little more difficulty in persuading them to a com-
plete, 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! Jour-
neys, London, servants, horses, table,-contractions and
restrictions every where. To live no longer with the de-
cencies 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 model his household.'
Sir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very
few days more of doubt and indecision, the great question
of whither he should go was settled, and the first outline of
this important change made out.
Persuasion.
221
There had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or
another house in the country. All Anne's wishes had been
for the latter. A small house in their own neighbourhood,
where they might still have Lady Russell's society, still be
near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes seeing
the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her
ambition. But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in
having something very opposite from her inclination fixed
on. She disliked Bath, and did not think it agreed with
her; and Bath was to be her home.
Sir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr.
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 com-
paratively 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 neighbourhood.
Anne herself would have found the mortifications of it more
than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's feelings they must
have been dreadful. And with regard to Anne's dislike of
Bath, she considered it as a prejudice and 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 to
think it must suit them all; and as to her young friend's
health, by passing all the warm months with her at Kel-
lynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided; and it was, in
222
Persuasion.
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 strength-
ened 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 profound secret; not to be
breathed beyond their own circle.
Sir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being
known to design letting his house. Mr. 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 suppo-
sition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most
unexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great
favour, that he would let it at all.
How quick come the reasons for approving what we like!
Lady Russell had another excellent one at hand, for being
extremely glad that Sir Walter and his family were to remove
from the country. Elizabeth had been lately forming an
intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted. It was with
a daughter of Mr. Shepherd, who had returned, after an
unprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the addi-
tional burden of two children. She was a clever young
woman, who understood the art of pleasing; the art of pleas-
ing, 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 cau-
tion and reserve.
Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with
Elizabeth, and seemed to love her, rather because she would
love her, than because Elizabeth deserved it. She had never
received from her more than outward attention, nothing
Persuasion.
223
beyond the observances of complaisance; had never suc-
ceeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against pre-
vious 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 occa-
sions 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.
CHAPTER III.
'I MUST take leave to observe, Sir Walter,' said Mr. Shep-
herd one morning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the
newspaper, 'that the present juncture is much in our favour.
This peace will be turning all our rich naval officers ashore.
They will be all wanting a home. Could not be a better
time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants, very respon-
sible 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
224
Persuasion.
had a little knowledge of their methods of doing business;
and I am free to confess that they have very liberal notions,
and are as likely to make desirable tenants as any set of
people one should meet with. Therefore, Sir Walter, what
I would take leave to suggest is, that if in consequence of
any rumours getting abroad of your intention—which must
be contemplated as a possible thing, because we know how
difficult it is to keep the actions and designs of one part of
the world from the notice and curiosity of the other,-
consequence has its tax-I, John Shepherd, might conceal.
any family-matters that I chose, for nobody would think it
worth their while to observe me; but Sir Walter Elliot has
eyes upon him which it may be very difficult to elude;
and, therefore, thus much I venture upon, that it will not
greatly surprise me if, with all our caution, some rumour of
the truth should get abroad; in the supposition of which, ast
I was going to observe, since applications will unquestionably
follow, I should think any from our wealthy naval com-
manders 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.'
Persuasion.
225
'As to all that,' rejoined Sir Walter coolly, 'supposing I
were induced to let my house, I have by no means made up
my mind as to the privileges to be annexed to it. I am not
particularly disposed to favour a tenant. The park would
be open to him of course, and few navy officers, or men of
any other description, can have had such a range; but what
restrictions I might impose on the use of the pleasure
grounds is another thing. I am not fond of the idea of my
shrubberies being always approachable; and I should recom-
mend Miss Elliot to be on her guard with respect to her
flower-garden. I am very little disposed to grant a tenant
of Kellynch Hall any extraordinary favour, I assure you, be
he sailor or soldier.'
After a short pause, Mr. Shepherd presumed to say,-
'In all these cases there are established usages which
make 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, certainly,'
was his daughter's; but Sir Walter's remark was, soon
afterwards,-
'The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to
see any friend of mine belonging to it.'
'Indeed!' was the reply, and with a look of surprise.
'Yes; it is in two points offensive to me; I have two
strong grounds of objection to it. First, as being the means
of bringing persons of obscure birth into undue distinction,
and raising men to honours which their fathers and grand-
fathers never dreamt of; and, secondly, as it cuts up a
man's youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old
Q
226
Persuasion.
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 dis-
dained to speak to, and of becoming prematurely an object
of disgust himself, than in any other line. One day last.
spring, in town, I was in company with two men, striking
instances of what I am talking of,-Lord St. Ives, whose
father we all know to have been a country curate, without
bread to eat I was to give place to Lord St. Ives,—and a
certain Admiral Baldwin, the most deplorable-looking per-
sonage 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 Bald-
win. What do you take his age to be?"-"Sixty," said I,
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 seafaring life can do; but to a degree,
I know it is the same with them all: they are all knocked
about, and exposed to every climate, and every weather,
till they are not fit to be seen. It is a pity they are not
knocked on the head at once, before they reach Admiral
Baldwin's age.'
66 or
'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 stopped a moment to con-
sider what might do for the clergyman-'and even the
clergyman, you know, is obliged to go into infected rooms,
Persuasion.
227
and expose his health and looks to all the injury of a
poisonous atmosphere. In fact, as I have long been con-
vinced, though every profession is necessary and honourable
in its turn, it is only the lot of those who are not obliged to
follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the country,
choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and
living on their own property, without the torment of trying
for more; it is only their lot, I say, to hold the blessings of
health and a good appearance to the utmost: I know no
other set of men but what lose something of their person-
ableness 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 application for
the house was from an Admiral Croft, with whom he shortly
afterwards fell into company in attending the quarter sessions
at Taunton; and, indeed, he had received a hint of the
Admiral from a London correspondent. By the report
which he hastened over to Kellynch to make, Admiral Croft
was a native of Somersetshire, who having acquired 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 enquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long
conference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place
as a man who knew it only by description could feel; and
given Mr. 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, sus-
picious enquiry.
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 Tra-
Q 2
228
Persuasion.
falgar action, and has been in the East Indies since; he has
been stationed there, I believe, several years.'
'Then I take it for granted,' observed Sir Walter, 'that
his face is about as orange as the cuffs and capes of my
livery.'
Mr. 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 consequence might fetch,—should not have
been surprised if Sir Walter had asked more,-had enquired
about the manor,-would be glad of the deputation,, cer-
tainly, but made no great point of it,-said he sometimes
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 suffering as much where there was no lady,
as where there were many children. A lady, without a
family, was the very best preserver of furniture in the world.
He had seen Mrs. Croft, too; she was at Taunton with the
Admiral, and had been present almost all the time they were
talking the matter over.
'And a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she
seemed to be,' continued he; 'asked more questions about
the house, and terms, and taxes, than the Admiral himself,
and seemed more conversant with business; and, moreover,
Sir Walter, I found she was not quite unconnected in this
country any more than her husband; that is to say, she is
sister to a gentleman who did live amongst us once; she
told me so herself:-sister to the gentleman who lived a
few years back at Monkford. Bless me! what was his name?
At this moment I cannot recollect his name, though I have
heard it so lately. Penelope, my dear, can you help me to
Persuasion.
229
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, sub-
mitted 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 remember 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 unconnected;
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 connection of the
Crofts did them no service with Sir Walter, he mentioned it
no more; returning, with all his zeal, to dwell on the cir-
cumstances 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
been supposed in the secret of Sir Walter's estimate of the
dues of a tenant.
230
Persuasion.
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 per-
mitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked into
allowing Mr. Shepherd to proceed in the treaty, and au-
thorising 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 experience
enough of the world to feel, that a more unobjectionable
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 explanation. An admiral
speaks his own consequence, and, at the same time, can
never make a baronet look small. In all their dealings and
intercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence.
Nothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth :
but her inclination was growing so strong for a removal,
that she was happy to have it fixed and expedited by a
tenant at hand; and not a word to suspend decision was
uttered by her.
Mr. Shepherd was completely empowered to act; and
no sooner had such an end been reached, than Anne, who
had been a most attentive listener to the whole, left the
room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her flushed cheeks;
and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a
gentle sigh, A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be
walking here.'
Persuasion.
231
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 com-
mander in consequence of the action off St. Domingo, and
not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire in
the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a
home for half a year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a
remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence,
spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an extremely pretty girl,
with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum
of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he
had nothing to do, and she had hardly any body to love;
but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could
not fail. They were gradually acquainted, and when ac-
quainted, 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 declara-
tions and proposals, or he in having them accepted.
A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a
short one. Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being
applied to, without actually withholding his consent, or
saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great
astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a professed
resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He thought
it a very degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though
with more tempered and pardonable pride, received it as a
most unfortunate one.
Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and
mind, to throw herself away at nineteen; involve herself at
nineteen in an engagement with a young man, who had
nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hopes of
attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain
profession, and no connections to secure even his farther
rise in that profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away.
which she grieved to think of! Anne Elliot, so young;
232
Persuasion.
known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger without
alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a state of
most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence! It must
not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any repre-
sentations from one 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 realised 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 had always been
lucky; he knew he should be so still. Such confidence,
powerful in its own warmth, and bewitching in the wit
which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne ;
but Lady Russell saw it very differently. His sanguine
temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently
on her.
She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil. It
only added a dangerous character to himself. He was
brilliant, he was headstrong. Lady Russell had little taste.
for wit; and of any thing approaching to imprudence a
horror. She deprecated the connection in every light.
Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than
Anne could combat. Young and gentle as she was, it might
yet have been possible to withstand her father's ill will,
though 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 suc-
cess, and not deserving it. But it was not a merely selfish
caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it.
Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even
more than her own, she could hardly have given him up.
The belief of being prudent and self-denying, principally for
his advantage, was her chief consolation under the misery of
a parting-a final parting; and every consolation was re-
quired, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of
opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending,
Persuasion.
233
and of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquish-
He had left the country in consequence.
ment.
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 attach-
ment to him, but she had been too dependent on time alone;
no aid had been given in change of place (except in one visit
to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty or enlarge-
ment of society. No one had ever come within the Kellynch
circle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Went-
worth, as he stood in her memory. No second attachment,
the only thoroughly natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her
time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind,
the fastidiousness of her taste, 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 was nineteen, she would
have rejoiced to see her at twenty-two so respectably re-
moved from the partialities and injustice of her father's
house, and settled so permanently near herself. But in this
case Anne had left nothing for advice to do; and though
Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion,
never wished the past undone, she began now to have the
anxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being
tempted, by some man of talents and independence, to enter
a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her
warm affections and domestic habits.
They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy
234
Persuasion.
or its change, on the one leading point of Anne's conduct,
for the subject was never alluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-
twenty, thought very differently from what she had been
made to think at nineteen. She did not blame Lady
Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided
by her; but she felt that were any young person in similar
circumstances to apply to her for counsel, they would never
receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such
uncertain future good. She was persuaded, that under every
disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every anxiety
attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and
disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman
in maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the
sacrifice of it; and this, she fully believed, had the usual
share, had even more than an usual share of all such solici-
tudes and suspense been theirs, without reference to the
actual results of their case, which, as it happened, would
have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be reasonably
calculated on. All his sanguine expectations, all his con-
fidence, 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 em-
ploy; and all that he had told her would follow had taken
place. He had distinguished himself, and early gained the
other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures,
have made a handsome fortune. She had only navy lists
and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt
his being rich; and, in favour of his constancy, she had no
reason to believe him married.
How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how elo-
quent, 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
Persuasion.
235
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 connections, by whom no
syllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the
trust that among his, the brother only with whom he had
been residing had received any information of their short-
lived engagement. That brother had been long removed
from the country; and being a sensible man, and, moreover,
a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on
no human creature's having heard of it from him.
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.
236
Persuasion.
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 a hearty good
humour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral's
side, as could not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides
been flattered into his very best and most polished behaviour
by Mr. 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 dif
ference to modify of all that 'This indenture showeth.'
Sir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be
the best-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far
as to say, that, if his own man might have had the arranging
of his hair, he should not be ashamed of being seen with
him any where; and the Admiral, with sympathetic cor-
diality, observed to his wife as they drove back through the
Park, 'I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear,
in spite of what they told us at Taunton. The Baronet will
never set the Thames on fire, but there seems no harm in him?'
-reciprocal compliments, which would have been esteemed
about equal.
The Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as
Sir Walter proposed removing to Bath in the course of the
Persuasion.
237
preceding month, there was no time to be lost in making
every dependent arrangement.
Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed
to be of any use, or any importance, in the choice of the
house which they were going to secure, was very unwilling to
have her hurried away so soon, and wanted to make it pos-
sible 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 there-
fore 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 Uppercross Cottage, and bear her
company as long as she could want her, instead of going
to Bath.
'I cannot possibly do without Anne,' was Mary's reason-
ing; 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 invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's diffi-
culties, 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 Cot-
tage and Kellynch Lodge.
So far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost
238
Persuasion.
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 busi-
ness 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 cer-
tainly altogether 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
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 sentiments
than you can be, I can assure you, that upon the subject of
marriage they are particularly nice; and that she reprobates
all inequality of condition and rank more strongly than most
people. And as to my father, I really should not have
thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for
our sakes, need be suspected now. If Mrs. Clay were a
Persuasion.
239
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-I really think poor Mrs. Clay may be
staying here in perfect safety. One would imagine you had
never heard my father speak of her personal misfortunes,
though I know you must fifty times. That tooth of hers,
and those freckles! Freckles do not disgust me so very
much as they do him. I have known a face not materially
disfigured by a few, but he abominates them. You must
have heard him notice Mrs. Clay's freckles.'
'There is hardly any personal defect,' replied Anne,
'which an agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile
one 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 absolutely
hopeless of doing good. Elizabeth, though resenting the
suspicion, might yet be made observant by it.
The last office of the four carriage horses was to draw Sir
Walter, Miss Elliot, and Mrs. Clay to Bath.
The party
drove off in very good spirits: Sir Walter prepared with con-
descending bows for all the afflicted tenantry and cottagers
who might have had a hint to show 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 antici-
pate 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,
240
Persuasion.
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 first 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; con-
taining 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
unmodernised; 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 pretti-
nesses, 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 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
indisposition 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 appearing,
greeted her with-
Persuasion.
241
'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 hus-
band. '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 as-
sure you I have not seen a soul this whole long morning.'
'You have had your little boys with you?'
'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, cheer-
fully. 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 themselves
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.'
R
242
Persuasion.
'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 gar-
den with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him
understand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell.
I have had all my own little concerns to arrange, books and
music to divide, and all my trunks to repack, from not
having understood in time what was intended as to the
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;
Persuasion.
243
and I think it very likely that my illness to-day may be
owing to it.'
A little farther perseverance in patience and forced cheer-
fulness 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, for-
getting 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,'
replied Anne. 'I should never think of standing on such
ceremony with people I know so well as Mrs. and the Miss
Musgroves.'
6
Oh, but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible.
They ought to feel what is due to you as my sister. How-
ever, 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 mo-
ther 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,
R 2
244
Persuasion.
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, their manners unembar-
rassed 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 parti-
cular invitation.
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 experience, she
Persuasion.
245
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, when you are
all gone away to be happy at Bath!'
She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in
future, and think with heightened gratitude of the extraor-
dinary blessing of having one such truly sympathising 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 the other com-
mon subjects of housekeeping, neighbours, 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, and wholesome exertion.
J
246
Persuasion.
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 useful-
ness, 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 admiration;
and, upon the whole, though there was very often a little
disagreement, (in which she had sometimes more share than
she wished, being appealed to by both parties,) they might
pass for a happy couple. They were always perfectly agreed
in the want of more money, and a strong inclination for a
handsome present from his father; but here, as on most
topics, he had the superiority, for while Mary thought it a
great shame that such a present was not made, he always
contended for his father's having many other uses for his
money, and a right to spend it as he liked.
As to the management of their children, his theory was
much better than his wife's, and his practice not so bad.
'I could manage them very well, if it were not for Mary's
interference,' was what Anne often heard him say, and had
a good deal of faith in; but when listening in turn to Mary's
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 complaints
of each house. Known to have some influence with her
sister, she was continually requested, or at least receiving
hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable. 'I wish you
could persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill,'
was Charles's language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus
Persuasion.
247
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 want-
ing to see them, for she humours and indulges them to such
a degree, and gives them so much trash and sweet things,
that they are sure to come back sick and cross for the rest of
the day.' And Mrs. Musgrove took the first opportunity of
being alone with Anne, to say, 'Oh, Miss Anne, I cannot
help wishing Mrs. Charles had a little of your method with
those children. They are quite different creatures with you!
But to be sure, in general they are so spoiled! It 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;
that one can only keep in tolerable order by more cake than
is good for them.'
or
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
248
Persuasion.
you, 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 mentioning it.'
Again; it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs. Musgrove was
very apt not to give her the precedence that was her due,
when they dined at the Great House with other families;
and she did not see any reason why she was to be considered
so much at home as to lose her place. And one day, when
Anne was walking with only the Miss Musgroves, one of
them, after talking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of
rank, said, ‘I have no scruple of observing to you, how non-
sensical 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 prece-
dence 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 griev-
ance, and excuse each to the other; give them all hints of
the forbearance necessary between such near neighbours,
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 advan-
Persuasion.
249
tage. 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 respect-
able forms in the usual places, or without the talking, laugh-
ing, and singing of their daughters.
She played a great deal better than either of the Miss
Musgroves; but having no voice, no knowledge of the harp,
and no fond parents to sit by and fancy themselves de-
lighted, 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 happi-
ness of being listened to, or encouraged by any just appre-
ciation 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 plea-
sure 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 Musgroves 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 kind-
ness which always recommended her musical powers to the
notice of Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove more than any thing else,
and often drew this compliment,—'Well done, Miss Anne!
very well done, indeed! Lord bless me how those little
fingers of yours fly about!'
250
D
Persuasion.
So passed the first three weeks.
Michaelmas came
and
A beloved
now Anne's heart must be in Kellynch again.
home made over to others; all the precious rooms and fur-
niture, groves and prospects, beginning to own other eyes
and other limbs! She could not think of much else on the
29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in
the evening from Mary, who on having occasion to note
down the day of the month, exclaimed, 'Dear me! is not
this the day the Crofts were to come to Kellynch? I am
glad I did not think of it before. How low it makes me !'
The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and
were to be visited. Mary deplored the necessity for herself.
'Nobody knew how much she should suffer. She should
put it off as long as she could.' But was not easy till she
had talked Charles into driving her over on an early day;
and was in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary
agitation when she came back. Anne had very sincerely
rejoiced in there being no means of her going. She wished,
however, to see the Crofts, and was glad to be within when
the visit was returned. They came: the master of the house
was not at home, but the two sisters were together; and as
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 fea-
tures, 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 her: especially, as she
Persuasion.
251
had satisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the
instant even of introduction, that there was not the smallest
symptom of any knowledge or suspicion on Mrs. Croft's
side to give a bias of any sort. She was quite easy on that
head, and consequently full of strength and courage, till for
a moment electrified by Mrs. Croft's 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 think-
ing and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and
with shame at her own forgetfulness, applied herself to the
knowledge of their former neighbour's present state with
proper interest.
The rest was all 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 car-
rying 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 question. 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 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 be-
252
Persuasion.
ginning to be listened for, when the youngest Miss Mus-
grove walked in. That she was coming to apologise, and
that they should have to spend the evening by themselves,
was the first black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be
affronted, when Louisa made all right by saying, that she
only came on foot, to leave more room for the harp, which
was bringing in the carriage.
'And I will tell you our reason,' she added, and all
about it. I am come on to give you notice, that papa and
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 circumstance of this pathetic piece of family
history were, that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of
a very troublesome, hopeless son, and the good fortune to
lose him before he reached his twentieth year; that he had
been sent to sea, because he was stupid and unmanageable
on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any time
by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom
heard of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence
of his death abroad had worked its way to 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
Persuasion.
253
Musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle him-
self 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 Went-
worth'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.
im-
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
pression at the time; and that Mrs. Musgrove should have
been suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of
the name of Wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed
one of those extraordinary bursts of mind which do some
times occur.
She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed;
and the re-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval,
her poor son gone for ever, and all the strength of his
faults forgotten, had affected her spirits exceedingly, and
thrown her into greater grief for him than she had known on
first hearing of his death. Mr. Musgrove was, in a lesser
degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the cottage,
they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew
on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheer-
ful companions could give.
To hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth,
repeating his name so often, puzzling over past years, and
at last ascertaining that it might, that it probably would, turn
out to be the very same Captain Wentworth whom they
recollected meeting, once or twice, after their coming back
from Clifton;—a very fine young man; but they could not
say whether it was seven or eight years ago,-was a new sort
of trial to Anne's nerves. She found, however, that it was
254
Persuasion.
one to which she must inure herself. Since he actually was
expected in the country, she must teach herself to be in-
sensible on such points. And not only did it appear that
he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves, in their
warm gratitude for the kindness he had shown poor Dick,
and very high respect for his character, stamped as it was
by poor Dick's having been six months under his care, and
mentioning him in strong, though not perfectly well-spelt
praise, as a fine dashing felow, only two perticular about
the schoolmaster,' were bent on introducing themselves, and
seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of his
arrival.
The resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of
their evening.
CHAPTER VII.
A 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
show 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 for-
ward for the Great House, where, as she afterwards learned,
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.
Persuasion.
255
His collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such in-
jury 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.
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 worst 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 indi-
vidual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all
a favourite before-how glad they had been to hear papa
invite him to stay to dinner-how sorry when he said it was
quite out of his power-and how glad again, when he had
promised to 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 atten-
tion 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.
256
Persuasion.
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. Musgrove, 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, 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 protestations to theirs.
Charles Musgrove, indeed, afterwards showed more of
inclination; '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 anything 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 con-
sequently to feel no necessity for longer confinement. 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.
send for me if anything is the matter.'
Anne will
Persuasion.
257
Husbands and wives generally understand when oppo-
sition will be vain. Mary knew, from Charles's manner of
speaking, that he was quite determined on going, and that it
would be of no use to tease him. She said nothing, there-
fore, 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 little 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 property, her own feel-
ings 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 teasing 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?
S
258
Persuasion.
Jemima is so careful. And she could send us word every
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 dread-
fully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very different to-
day.'
'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.'
son.
'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
am I? and it only harasses me. You, who have
not a mother's feelings, are a great deal the properest per-
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 Went-
worth, 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; Anne under-
takes to stay at home and take care of him. It is Anne's
own proposal, and so I shall go with you, 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,
Persuasion.
259
‘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 convince
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 unper-
suadable; 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 con-
structed 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 un-
willing. 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 inde-
pendence which alone had been wanting.
Her brother and sister came back delighted with their
new acquaintance, and their visit in general. There had
been music, singing, talking, laughing, all that was most
agreeable; charming manners in Captain Wentworth, no
shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other per-
fectly, and he was coming the very next morning to shoot
with Charles. He was to come to 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.
S2
260
Persuasion.
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 Went-
worth 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 run-
ning 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 Wentworth's; a
bow, a courtesy 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 showed himself at the window, all was
ready, their visitor had bowed and was gone; the Miss Mus-
groves were gone too; suddenly resolving to walk to the
end of the village with the sportsmen: the room was cleared,
and Anne might finish her breakfast as she could.
'It is over! it is over!' she repeated to herself again and
again, in nervous gratitude. "The worst is over!'
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
Persuasion.
261
How absurd to be re
interval had banished
What might not eight
passed, since all had been given up.
suming the agitation which such an
into distance and indistinctness!
years do? Events of every description, changes, aliena-
tions, removals,—all, all must be comprised in it; and
oblivion of the past-how natural, how certain too! It in-
cluded 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 wishing 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 informa-
tion 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 submitted,
in silent, deep mortification. Doubtless it was so; and she
could take no revenge, for he was not altered, or not for
the worse. She had already acknowledged it to herself, and
she could not think differently, let him think of her as he
would. No; the years which had destroyed her youth and
bloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open
look, in no respect lessening his personal advantages. She
had seen the same Frederick Wentworth.
'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 com-
posed, and consequently must make her happier.
Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something
262
Persuasion.
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. She had used him ill; deserted
and disappointed him; and worse, she had shown a feeble-
ness of character in doing so, which his own decided, con-
fident 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, when he said to his sister,
in answer to her suppositions,—
'Yes, here I am, Sophia, quite ready to make a foolish
match. Any body between fifteen and thirty may have me
for asking. A little beauty, and a few smiles, and a few com-
pliments 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.'
Persuasion.
263
CHAPTER VIII.
FROM this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were
repeatedly in the same circle. They were soon dining in
company together at Mr. Musgrove's, for the little boy's state
could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for absent-
ing herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings
and other meetings.
Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be
brought to the proof; former times must undoubtedly be
brought to the recollection of each; they could not but be
reverted to; the year of their engagement could not but be
named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions which
conversation called forth. His profession qualified him, his
disposition led him, to talk; and 'That was in the year six;'
'That happened before I went to sea, in the year six,' oc-
curred in the course of the first evening they spent together:
and though his voice did not falter, and though she had no
reason to suppose his eye wandering towards her while he
spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her knowledge
of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any
more than herself. There must be the same immediate
association of thought, though she was very far from con-
ceiving 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 Upper-
cross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to
speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of
Admiral and Mrs. Croft, who seemed particularly attached
and happy, (Anne 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 so in unison,
no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers;
nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become
acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.
264
Persuasion.
When he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned
the same mind. There was a very general ignorance of all
naval matters throughout the party; and he was very much
questioned, and especially by the two Miss Musgroves, who
seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the
manner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours,
&c.; and their surprise at his accounts, at learning the
degree of accommodation and arrangement which was
practicable, drew from him some pleasant ridicule, which
reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been
ignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors
to be living on board without anything to eat, or any cook
to dress it if there were, or any servant to wait, or any knife
and fork to use.
From thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a
whisper of Mrs. Musgrove's, who, overcome by fond regrets,
could not help saying,
'Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my
poor son, I dare say he would have been just such another
by this time.'
Anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs.
Musgrove relieved her heart a little more; and for a few
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 Miss 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 view 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 fit for service then. Reported fit for home service.
for a year or two,-and so I was sent off to the West
Indies.'
The girls looked all amazement.
'The Admiralty,' he continued, 'entertain themselves, now
and then, with sending a few hundred men to sea in a ship
not fit to be employed. But they have a great many to pro-
Persuasion.
265
vide for; and among the thousands that may just as well go
to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to distinguish
the very set who 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 anything 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.'
t
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 yourself. 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 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 improved our condition. Four-and-twenty
266
Persuasion.
hours later, and I should only have been a gallant Captain
Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the news-
papers; 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 probabilities
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-commissioned 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 happiness. 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.'
Persuasion.
267
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 ist
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 Went-
worth, we are very sorry he ever left you.'
There was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth'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 grace, as showed 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 Went-
worth 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 neces-
sary 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 con-
268
Persuasion.
junctions, which reason will patronise 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 interrupting,
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.'
C
'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 im-
possible it is, with all one's efforts, and all one's sacrifices,
to make the accommodations on board such 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
|
Persuasion.
269
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 com-
fortable 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 hus-
bands, if everybody had your feelings?'
'My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking Mrs.
Harville, and all her family, to Plymouth.'
'But I hate to hear you talking so, like a fine gentleman,
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 anybody that will bring him
his wife.'
'Ay, that we shall.'
'When
“Oh, you
'Now I have done,' cried Captain Wentworth.
once married people begin to attack me with-
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
270
Persuasion.
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 God! I have
always been blessed with excellent health, and no climate
disagrees with me. A little disordered 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 com-
plaints 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. I 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 instrument,
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
Persuasion.
271
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 apparently ad-
mitted to the honour of being in love with him; and as for
Henrietta and Louisa, they both seemed so entirely occupied
by him, that nothing but the continued appearance of the
most perfect good-will between themselves could have made
it credible that they were not decided rivals. If he were a
little spoilt by such universal, such eager admiration, who
could wonder?
These 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 without
consciousness. Once she felt that he was looking at her-
self,-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 Musgroves an idea of. Unintentionally she
returned to that part of the room; he saw her, and instantly
rising, said, with studied politeness :-
'I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;' and
though she immediately drew back with a decided negative,
he was not to be induced to sit down again.
Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches.
His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than
anything.
272
Persuasion.
CHAPTER IX.
CAPTAIN 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 com-
panion 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 everywhere; 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 Wentworth very
much in the way.
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 introduction.
He was in orders; and having a curacy in the neighbour-
hood, where residence was not required, lived at his father's
house, only two miles from Uppercross. A short absence
from home had left his fair one unguarded by his attentions
Persuasion.
273
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 educa-
tion, have been hardly in any class at all, but for their
connection with Uppercross, this eldest son of course ex-
cepted, 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 disapprobation. 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 Went-
worth came; but from that time Cousin Charles had been
very much forgotten.
Which of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Went-
worth 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 daugh-
ters, 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 disposed to speculate and
T
274
Persuasion.
wonder; and Captain Wentworth had not been above four
or five times in the Miss Musgroves' company, and Charles
Hayter had but just re-appeared, 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.'
'Dear me! if
'Upon my word it would,' replied Mary.
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
match for Henrietta; and considering the alliances which
the Musgroves have made, she has no right to throw her-
self away. I do not think any young woman has a right
to make a choice that may be disagreeable and incon-
venient 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 Charles Hayter? Nothing but a country
curate. A most improper match for Miss Musgrove of
Uppercross.'
Persuasion.
275
Her husband, however, would not agree with her here;
for besides having a regard for his cousin, Charles 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 Charles 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
The estate at Winthrop is not less than
two hundred and fifty acres, besides the farm near Taun-
ton, which is some of the best land in the country. I grant
you, that any of them but Charles would be a very shock-
ing 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 Win-
throp 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.'
'Charles may say what he pleases,' cried Mary to Anne,
as soon as he was out of the room, but it would be shock-
ing to have Henrietta marry Charles Hayter: a very bad
thing for her, and still worse for me; and therefore it is very
much to be wished that Captain Wentworth may soon put
him quite out of her head, and I have very little 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
T 2
276
Persuasion.
all these things should have been seen by Anne; but she had
staid at home, under the mixed plea of a headache 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 im-
peaching his own honour, than that he should prefer Henrietta
to Louisa, or Louisa to Henrietta. 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 sympathise in any 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 ex-
tinguish every past hope, and leave him nothing to do but to
keep away froin Uppercross; but there was such a change
as became very alarming, when 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 obtain-
ing that of Uppercross 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
Persuasion.
277
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 the window, looking
out for Captain Wentworth; and even Henrietta had at best
only a divided attention to give, and seemed to have for-
gotten all the former doubt and solicitude of the nego-
tiation.
'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 Musgroves,
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 deprived his manners of their usual composure: he
started, and could only say, 'I thought the Miss Musgroves
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 upstairs 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
278
Persuasion.
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 remarkably stout, forward child, of two years old,
having got the door opened for him by some one without,
made his determined appearance among them, and went
straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his
claim to any thing good that might be giving away..
There being nothing to eat, he could only have some
play; and as his aunt would not let him tease his sick
brother, he began to fasten himself upon her, as she knelt,
in such a way that, busy as she was about Charles, she could
not shake him off. She spoke to him, ordered, entreated,
and insisted in vain. Once she did contrive to push him
away, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon
her back again directly.
'Walter,' said she, 'get down this moment. You are
extremely troublesome. I am very angry with you.'
6
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
Persuasion.
279
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 her thanks, and rather sought to
testify that her conversation was the last of his wants, pro-
duced 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 Musgroves, 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 altogether;
but she could stay for none of it. It was evident that
Charles Hayter was not well inclined towards Captain Went-
worth. She had a strong impression of his having said, in a
vexed tone of voice, after Captain Wentworth's interference,
'You ought to have minded me, Walter; I told you not to
tease 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, nor any
body's feelings, could interest her, till she had 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.
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 of being divided between them. Anne
280
Persuasion.
longed for the power of representing to them all what they
were about, and of pointing out some of the evils they were
exposing themselves 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 study-
ing himself to death. It was Mary's hope and belief that he
had received a positive dismissal from Henrietta, and her
husband lived under the constant dependence 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
sisters 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 Musgroves
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,
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 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,
Persuasion.
281
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
with 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, which 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 fore-
seen such a junction, she would have staid at home; but,
from some feelings 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 Mus-
groves, who evidently considered the walk as under their
guidance.
Anne's object was, not to be in the way of anybody;
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 exercise 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, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible
influence on the mind of taste and tenderness, that season
which has drawn from 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 Musgroves, 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
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Persuasion.
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 Wentworth
added,-
'What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister!
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.
abouts 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.'
6
I wonder where-
Ah, you make the most of it, I know,' cried Louisa;
'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
And there was silence between them for a little
you!'
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.
6
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 summit of the most consider-
able hill, which parted Uppercross and Winthrop, and soon.
Persuasion.
283
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 farmyard.
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 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 showed 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 con-
sultations, 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 connections! 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.
284
Persuasion.
The brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheerful
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 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 confirm
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
Persuasion.
285
visit to your aunt was in question; and wo betide him, and
her too, when it comes to things of consequence, when
they are placed in circumstances requiring fortitude and
strength of mind, if she have not resolution enough to re-
sist 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 ori-
ginal strength, has outlived all the storms of autumn. Not
a puncture, not a weak spot any where. This nut,' he con-
tinued, 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 sup-
posed 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 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 sur-
prised 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 pro-
tected 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 excessively, 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 a moment's pause, Captain Wentworth said,—
286
Persuasion.
'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 lis-
tener'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 minutia of
the business Anne could not attempt to understand—even
Captain Wentworth did not seem admitted to perfect con-
fidence 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 first instant
of their all setting forward for Uppercross.
Every thing now marked out Louisa for Captain Went-
worth: nothing could be plainer; and where many divisions.
were necessary, or even where they were not, they walked
Persuasion.
287
In a long
side by side, nearly as inuch as the other two.
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 shown herself disobliging to him, and was now to
reap the consequence-which consequence was his dropping
her arm almost every moment, to cut off the heads of some
nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when Mary began
to complain of it, and lament her being ill used, according
to custom, in being on the hedge side, while Anne was
never incommoded on the other, he dropped the arms of
both, to hunt after a weasel which he had a momentary
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 en-
gaged 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 walking party had crossed the lane, and were sur-
mounting an opposite stile; and the Admiral was putting his
horse into motion again, when Captain Wentworth cleared
the hedge in a moment, to say something to his sister. The
something might be guessed by its effects.
'Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired,' cried Mrs. Croft.
'Do let us have the pleasure of taking you home. Here is
excellent room for three, I assure you. If we were all like
288
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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 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 circumstance 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
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
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?'
Persuasion.
289
'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 canvass, 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 repre-
sentation of the general guidance of their affairs, found her-
self safely deposited by them at the Cottage.
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 intercourse
between the two families. This was against her; but, on
the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Upper-
cross, that in removing thence she might be considered
U
}
290
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rather as leaving him behind, than as going towards him;
and, upon the whole, she believed she must, on this inter-
esting 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 a
way which she had not at all imagined. Captain Wentworth,
after being unseen and unheard of at Uppercross 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 Har-
ville'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
Persuasion.
291
Wentworth talked of going there again himself; it was only
seventeen miles from Uppercross: though November, the
weather was by no means bad; and, in short, Louisa, who
was the most eager of the eager, having formed the resolu-
tion 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, Mary, 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 November
would not leave much time for seeing a new place, after
deducting seven hours, as the nature of the country re-
quired, for going and returning. They were, consequently,
to stay the night there, and not to be expected 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 punc-
tually, 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 look-
ing 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 unquestion-
ably 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
U 2
292
Persuasion.
company; the Cobb itself, its old wonders and new improve-
ments, 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 de-
clare that many a generation must have passed away since
the first partial falling of the cliff prepared the ground for
such a state, where a scene so wonderful and so lovely is
exhibited, as may more than equal any of the resembling
scenes of the far-famed Isle of Wight :-these places must
be visited, 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 Went-
worth'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 admiring;
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. Harville, and a Captain
Benwick, who was staying with them.
Captain Benwick had some time ago been first lieutenant
of the Laconia; and the account which Captain Wentworth
had given of him, on his return from Lyme before, his warm
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293
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 en-
gaged 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 Har-
ville did not live to know it. She had died the preceding
summer, while he was at sea. Captain Wentworth believed
it impossible for man to be more attached to woman than
poor Benwick had been to Fanny Harville, or 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 pur-
suits. To finish the interest of the story, the friendship
between him and the Harvilles seemed, if possible, aug-
mented 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 unexpensive, 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 pro-
spects so blighted for ever. He is younger than I am;
younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man.
will rally again, and be happy with another.'
He
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 Wentworth.
Captain Benwick looked, and was, the youngest of the three,
and, compared with either of them, a little man. He had
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a pleasing face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to
have, and drew back from conversation.
Captain Harville, though not equalling 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, because the friends of Captain Wentworth, or more
kindly hospitable than their entreaties for their all pro-
mising to dine with them. The dinner, already ordered at
the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted as an ex-
cuse; but they seemed almost hurt that Captain Wentworth
should have brought any such party to Lyme, without con-
sidering 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 benefited 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 in-doors 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 ex-
pected. 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 dis-
tant countries Captain Harville had visited, were more than
Persuasion.
295
amusing to Anne: connected as it all was with his pro-
fession, 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 Harville was no reader; but he had contrived ex-
cellent accommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves,
for a tolerable collection of well-bound volumes, the pro-
perty of Captain Benwick. His lameness prevented 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 improvements; 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 admiration and
delight on the character of the navy-their friendliness,
their brotherliness, their openness, their uprightness; pro-
testing 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
296
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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 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 man-
ners, 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 Abydos, and, moreover, how the Giaour
was to be pronounced, he showed 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
Persuasion.
297
who enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings
which alone could estimate it truly were the very feelings
which ought to taste it but sparingly.
His looks showing 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 particularise, men-
tioned such works of our best moralists, such collections
of the finest letters, such memoirs of characters of worth
and suffering, as occurred to her at the moment as calcu-
lated to rouse and fortify the mind by the highest precepts,
and the strongest examples of moral and religious endur-
ances.
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 pa-
tience 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.
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 ad-
mitted. They praised the morning; gloried in the sea;
sympathised in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze—and
were silent; till Henrietta suddenly began again, with--
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Persuasion.
sea.
'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 de-
clares 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
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 him-
self 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 doubt is,
whether anything 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 anything 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
Persuasion.
299
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 com-
panion, '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 anything! 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 grate-
ful, 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 sub-
jects suddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Went-
worth coming towards them. They came also for a stroll
till breakfast was likely to be ready; but Louisa recollect-
ing, immediately afterwards, that she had something to pro-
cure 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 in-
sensible of. She was looking remarkably well; her very
regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and fresh-
ness 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 showed 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.'
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Persuasion.
After attending Louisa through her business, and loiter-
ing 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 themselves; 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.
He seemed about thirty, and, though not handsome, had an
agreeable person. Anne felt that she should like to know
who he was.
They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a
carriage (almost the first they had heard since entering Lyme)
drew half the party to the window. 'It was a gentleman's
carriage a curricle-but only coming round from the stable-
yard to the front door-somebody must be going away. It
was driven by a servant in mourning.'
The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up,
that he might compare it with his own, 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.
C
'Pray,' said Captain Wentworth, immediately, can you
tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone
away?'
'Yes, sir, a Mr. Elliot; a gentleman of large fortune,
Persuasion.
3ΟΙ
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.'
'Elliot!' 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; my father's
next heir? Pray, sir,' turning to the waiter, 'did not you
hear,—did not his servant say whether he belonged to the
Kellynch family?'
'No, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family;
but he said his master was a very rich gentleman, and would
be a baronight some day.'
'There! you see!' cried Mary, in an ecstacy; 'just as I
said! Heir to Sir Walter Elliot! I was sure that would
come out, if it was so. Depend upon it, that is a circum-
stance which his servants take care to publish wherever he
goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary! I wish
I had looked at him more. I wish we had been aware in
time who it was, that he might have been introduced to us.
What a pity that we should not have been introduced to
each other! Do you think he had the Elliot countenance?
I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I
think he had something of the Elliot countenance. I wonder
the arms did not strike me! Oh, the great-coat was hang-
ing over the panel, and hid the arms; so it did, otherwise, I
am sure, I should have observed them, and the livery too;
if the servant had not been in mourning, one should have
known him by the livery.'
Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances to-
gether,' said Captain Wentworth, we must consider it to be
the arrangement of Providence, that you should not be in-
troduced 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
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make the power of attempting an introduction at all desir-
able.
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 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 corre-
spondence 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 mean while 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.
Persuasion.
303
'Miss Elliot,' said he, speaking rather low, 'you have
done a good deal in making that poor fellow talk so much.
I wish he could have such company oftener. It is bad for
him, I know, to be shut up as he is; but what can we do?
we cannot part.'
'No,' said Anne, 'that I can easily believe to be impos-
sible: 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 Went-
worth). 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 poor 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 Louisa soon grew so
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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 cling to them to the
last, proceeded 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 perforce 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 sen-
sation was delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement
for her feet made him less willing upon the present occasion;
he did it, however; she was safely down, and instantly, to
show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down
again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great;
but no, he reasoned and talked in vain: she smiled and said,
'I am determined I will:' he put out his hands; she was too
precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the
Lower 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
'She is dead! she is dead!'
screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and contri-
buting with his own horror to make him immovable; and in
another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction,
lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps but
for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported
her between them.
Persuasion.
305
'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 hys-
terical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which
he could not give.
Anne, attending with all the strength, and zeal, and
thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at
intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet
Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain
Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions.
'Anne, Anne,' cried Charles, 'what is to be done next?
What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?'
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306
Persuasion.
Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her.
'Had not she better be carried to the inn?
sure, carry her gently to the inn.’
Yes, I am
'Yes, yes, to the inn,' repeated Captain Wentworth, com-
paratively 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 feelings 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 showed 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; and while Louisa, under Mrs. Harville's
direction, was conveyed upstairs, 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;
Persuasion.
307
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 ecstacy 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 for-
gotten 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 impossible. The Harvilles
silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all grati-
tude. They had looked forward 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 these two she could want no pos-
sible 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
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308
Persuasion.
in consultation, and for a little while it was only an inter-
change of perplexity and terror. Uppercross, the neces
sity 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, Captam 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, cither you or
I must go.'
Charles agreed; but declared his resolution of not going
away. He would be as little encumbrance 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. She,
however, was soon persuaded to think differently. The use-
fulness of her staying! She, who had not been able to
remain in Louisa's room, or to look at her, without suffer-
ings which made her worse 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.
6
Then it is settled, Musgrove,' cried Captain Wentworth,
'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 onc. 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,'
Persuasion.
309
·
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 home the
next morning early, when there would be the farther advan-
tage 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, however, there
was an end of all peace in it. She was so wretched, and so
vehement, complained so much of injustice 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! 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 Henrietta's schemes for Dr. Shir-
ley's leaving Uppercross; farther on she had first seen Mr.
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Persuasion.
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 convenience
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 astonishment-the expres-
sions begun and suppressed, with which 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. With-
out 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
ur.necessarily from the office of a friend.
see.
In the mean while 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 astonish-
ment 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 fore-
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
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311
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 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?"
But the
She did he was satisfied, and said no more.
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 com-
posed 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 THE FIRST VOLUME.
312
Persuasion.
VOLUME THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
THE remainder of Anne's time at Uppercross, comprehend-
ing 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 assist-
ing in all those arrangements for the future, which, in Mr.
and Mrs. Musgrove's distressed state of spirits, would have
heen 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 afterwards,
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 excrtions 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 hysterical
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 had 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 mul-
tiply 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 con-
veyed back a far more useful person in the old nursery-maid
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313
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, conse-
quently, 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 preparations, and sending them off at an early
hour, though her being left to the solitary range of the house
was the consequence.
She was the last, excepting the little boys at the Cottage,
she was the very last, the only remaining one of all that
had filled and animated both houses, of all that had given
Uppercross its cheerful character. A few days had made
a change indeed.
314
Persuasion.
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 win-
dows, 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.
verandah, 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 feel-
ing, 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 recollection
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.
cross.
There was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell's joy in
meeting her. She knew who had been frequenting Upper-
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 amuse-
ment 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
Persuasion.
315
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 Mus-
groves, 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 interesting to her was the home and the friend-
ship 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 anything 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 en-
quiries, she must regret the imprudence, lament the result,
and Captain Wentworth's name must be mentioned 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 eye, till she had adopted the expedient of
telling her briefly what she thought of the attachment be-
tween 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
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Persuasion.
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 polite-
ness 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 atten-
tion and relief, that however sorry and ashamed for the neces-
sity of the removal, she could not but in conscience 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 return-
ing through the well-known apartments.
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 occupied! An ancient
family to be so driven away! Strangers filling their place!'
No, except when she thought of her mother, and remem-
bered 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 pre-
sent 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 ap-
peared that each lady dated her intelligence from the same
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317
hour of yester morn; that Captain Wentworth 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.
As 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 consequence 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 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
mistress's head! is not it, Miss Elliot? This is breaking a
head and giving a plaster truly!'
Admiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit
Lady Russell, but they delighted Anne. His goodness of
heart and simplicity of character were irresistible.
'Now, this must be very bad for you,' said he, suddenly
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 cere-
mony. 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
318
Persuasion.
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 gratefully.
'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 inconvenience 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 im-
provement the house ever had. Indeed, I must do our-
selves 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,' 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 one's self. 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 hereabouts 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
Persuasion.
319
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 connections 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.
CHAPTER II.
THOUGH Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much
longer after Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove's going than Anne con-
ceived they could have been at all wanted, they were yet the
first of the family to be at home again; and as soon as pos-
sible after their return to Uppercross 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 to say when she might be able to bear
the removal home; and her father and mother, who must
return in time to receive their younger children for the
Christmas holidays, had hardly a hope of being allowed to
bring her with 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 Uppercross 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
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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 handsome 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 the Har-
villes, 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 agree-
able fortnight.
Anne enquired after Captain Benwick. Mary's face was
clouded directly. Charles laughed.
'Oh, Captain Benwick 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 Benwick.'
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
Persuasion.
321
and situation to be in love with an Elliot, or from not
wanting to believe Anne a greater attraction to Uppercross
than herself, must be left to be guessed. Anne's good-will,
however, was not to be lessened by what she 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 recommend-
ation, 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 Henrietta
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
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Persuasion.
have him calling here soon. So, I give you notice, Lady
Russell.'
'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.'
'I think Lady Rus-
'There we differ, Mary,' said Anne.
sell 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.'
Give him
'So do I, Anne,' said Charles. 'I am sure Lady Russell
would like him. He is just Lady Russell's sort.
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 like
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 beforehand.'
'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.
Persuasion.
323
'He is a man,' said Lady Russell, 'whom I have no wish
His declining to be on cordial terms with the head
of his family has left a very strong impression in his disfavour
to see.
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 communication 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 ex-
tremely fearful of any ill consequence to her from an inter-
view, 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 Ben-
wick 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.
Lady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them
once, when Anne could not but feel that Uppercross was
Y 2
324
Persuasion.
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 ty
ranny of the two children from the Cottage, expressly ar-
rived 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. Musgrove
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 atten-
tions to them, concluded a short recapitulation 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 Up-
percross, whenever she returned. Captain Wentworth was
gone, for the present, to see his brother in Shropshire.
'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 distress-
Persuasion.
325
ing, 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 milkmen, 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 dis-
agreeable, yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see
her when she arrived? Anne looked back, with fond re-
gret, to the bustles of Uppercross and the seclusion of
Kellynch.
Elizabeth's last letter had communicated a piece of news
of some 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 con-
nection, as he had formerly taken pains to show 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 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 circum-
stance; 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.
326
Persuasion.
She was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell
then drove to her own lodgings, in River's Street.
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 re-
ceived, did her good. Her father and sister were glad to
see her, for the sake of showing her the house and furni-
ture, and met her with kindness. Her making a fourth,
when they sat down to dinner, was noticed as an ad-
vantage.
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 un-
looked 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 neigh-
bourhood, 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 exceed-
ingly sought after. Every body was wanting to visit them.
They had drawn back from many introductions, and still
Persuasion.
327
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 landholder; 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 apologise for the past, such solicitude to
be received as a relation again, that their former good un-
derstanding 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 disrespectfully or
carelessly of the family and the family honours, he was quite
indignant. He, who had ever boasted of being an Elliot, and
whose feelings, as to connection, were only too strict to suit
the unfeudal tone of the present day! He was astonished,
indeed! But his character and general conduct must refute
328
Persuasion.
it. He could refer Sir Walter to all who knew him;
and, certainly, the pains he had been taking on this, the
first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the
footing of a relation and 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, perfectly 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 mate-
rial difference in the discredit of it.
Colonel Wallis had known Mr. Elliot long, had been well
acquainted also with his wife, had perfectly understood the
whole story. She was certainly not a woman of family, but
well educated, accomplished, rich, and excessively in love
with his friend. There had been the charm. She had
sought him. Without that attraction, not all her money
would have tempted Elliot, and Sir Walter was, moreover,
assured of her having been a very fine woman. Here was
a great deal to soften the business. A very fine woman,
with a large fortune, in love with him! Sir Walter seemed
to admit it as complete apology; and though Elizabeth
could not see the circumstance in quite so favourable a
light, she allowed it to be a great extenuation.
Mr. Elliot had called repeatedly, had dined with them
once, evidently delighted by the distinction of being asked,
for they gave no dinners in general; delighted, in short, by
every proof of cousinly notice, and placing his whole happi-
ness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place.
Anne listened, but without quite understanding it. Al-
lowances, large allowances, she knew, must be made for
the ideas of those who spoke. She heard it all under em-
bellishment. All that sounded extravagant or irrational in
the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin but
in the language of the relators. Still, however, she had
the sensation of there being something more than immedi-
Persuasion.
329
+
ately 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 handsome, with well-bred, elegant manners, and her
character might never have been penetrated by Mr. Elliot,
knowing her but in public, and when very young himself.
How her temper and understanding might bear the investi-
gation 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 disposed
to believe herself so; and that her friend, Mrs. Clay, was
encouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or
two between them, while Mr. Elliot's frequent visits were
talked of.
Anne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at
Lyme, but without being much attended to. 'Oh yes, per-
haps, it had been Mr. Elliot. They did not know. It
might be him, perhaps.' They could not listen to her
description of him. They were describing him themselves;
Sir Walter especially. He did justice to his very gentle-
manlike appearance, his air of elegance and fashion, his
good-shaped face, his sensible eye; but, at the same time,
must lament his being very much under-hung, a defect
which time seemed to have increased; nor could he pretend
to say that ten years had not altered almost every feature
for the worse. Mr. Elliot appeared to think that he (Sir
Walter) was looking exactly as he had done when they last
parted;' but Sir Walter had 'not been able to return the
compliment entirely, which had embarrassed him. He did
330
Persuasion.
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! and Mr. Elliot
so anxious that he should!' And there was a Mrs. Wallis,
at present only known to them by description, as she was
in daily expectation of her confinement; but Mr. Elliot
spoke of her as a most charming woman, quite worthy of
being known in Camden Place,' and as soon as she re-
covered, 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, with-
out there being a tolerable face among them. It had been
a frosty morning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one
woman in a thousand could stand the test of. But still,
there certainly were a dreadful multitude of ugly women in
Bath; and as for the men! they were infinitely worse. Such
scarecrows as the streets were full of! It was evident how
little the women were used to the sight of any thing toler-
able, by the effect which a man of decent appearance pro-
duced. 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.
Persuasion.
331
'How is Mary looking?' said Sir Walter, in the height of
his good humour. 'The last time I saw her, she had a red
nose, but I hope that may not happen every day.'
In ge-
'Oh no, that must have been quite accidental.
neral 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. Elliot's knock.' Mrs. Clay was right. With all the
state which a butler and footboy could give, Mr. Elliot was
ushered into the room.
It was the same, the very same man, with no difference
but of dress. Anne drew a little back, while the others
received his compliments, and her sister his apologies for
calling 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 remem-
bering Mary);-and Anne, smiling and blushing, very be-
comingly showed to Mr. Elliot the pretty features which he
had by no means forgotten, and instantly saw, with amuse-
ment at his little start of surprise, 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 relation-
ship, 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 speak-
332
Persuasion.
ing, and his manners were so exactly what they ought to be,
so polished, so easy, so particularly agreeable, that she
could compare them in excellence to only one person's
manners. They were not the same, but they were, perhaps,
equally good.
He sat down with them, and improved their conversation
very much. There could be no doubt of his being a sen-
sible 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, dis-
cerning mind. As soon as he could, he began to talk to her
of Lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting the place,
but especially wanting to speak of the circumstance of their
happening to be guests in the same inn at the same time, to
give his own route, understand something 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 regret increased as he listened.
He had spent his whole solitary evening in the room adjoin-
ing 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 possessing the shadow of a right to introduce himself. If
he had but asked who the party were! The name of Mus-
grove would have told him enough. 'Well, it would serve
to cure him of an absurd practice of never asking a ques-
tion 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
Persuasion.
333
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 Eliza-
beth 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 con-
cern 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!
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
334
Persuasion.
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,' he sup-
posed.—'No, nothing at all.'-'Ha! he was surprised at
that;' and added, 'Certainly you cannot do better than con-
tinue 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 cha-
ritable, or more indifferent, towards the others. His manners
were an immediate recommendation; and on conversing
with him she found the solid so fully supporting the super-
ficial, 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
Persuasion.
335
feelings of family attachment and family honour, without
pride or weakness; he lived with the liberality of a man
of fortune, without display; he judged for himself in every
thing essential, without defying public opinion in any point
of worldly decorum. He was steady, observant, moderate,
candid; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness,
which fancied itself strong feeling; and yet, with a sensibility
to what was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the
felicities of domestic life, which characters of fancied enthu-
siasm and violent agitation seldom really possess. She was
sure that he had not been happy in marriage. Colonel
Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it; but it had been no
unhappiness to sour his mind, nor (she began pretty soon
to suspect) to prevent his thinking of a second choice.
Her satisfaction in Mr. Elliot outweighed all the plague of
Mrs. Clay.
It was now some 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 inconsistent, nothing
to require more motives than appeared, in Mr. Elliot's great
desire of a reconciliation. In Lady Russell's view, it was
perfectly natural that Mr. Elliot, at a mature time of life,
should feel it a most desirable object, and what would very
generally recommend him, among all sensible people, to be
on good terms with the head of his family; the simplest pro-
cess in the world of time upon a head naturally clear, and
only erring in the heyday of youth. Anne presumed, how-
ever, 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 excusable. In fact, Anne could
never see the crape round his hat, without fearing that she
$36
Persuasion.
was the inexcusable one, in attributing to him such imagina-
tions; for though his marriage had not been very happy, still
it had existed so many years that she could not comprehend
a very rapid recovery from the awful impression of its being
aissolved.
However it might end, he was without any question their
pleasantest acquaintance in Bath: she saw nobody equal to
him; and it was a great indulgence now and then to talk to
him about Lyme, which he seemed to have as lively a wish
to see again, and to see more of, as herself. They went
through the particulars of their first meeting a great many
times. He gave her to understand that he had looked at
her with some earnestness. She knew it well; and she re-
membered another person's look also.
They did not always think alike. His value for rank and
connection 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 Dalrymple, and her
daughter, the Honourable Miss Carteret ; and all the comfort
of No. —, Camden Place, was swept away for many days;
for the Dalrymples (in Anne's opinion, most unfortunately)
were cousins of the Elliots; and the agony was, how to
introduce themselves properly.
Anne had never seen her father and sister before in con-
tact with nobility, and she must acknowledge herself disap-
pointed. She had hoped better things from their high ideas.
of their own situation in life, and was reduced to form a wish
which she had never foreseen—a wish that they had more
pride; for 'our cousins, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret ;'
'our cousins, the Dalrymples,' sounded in her ears all day
long.
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 ceremony, ever
since the death of that said late Viscount, when, in con-
sequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter's at the same
Persuasion.
337
time, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch. No.
letter of condolence had been sent to Ireland. The neglect
had been visited on the head of the sinner; for when poor
Lady Elliot died herself, no letter of condolence was received
at Kellynch, and, consequently, there was but too much.
reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered the
relationship as closed. How to have this anxious business
set to rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the
question; and it was a question which, in a more rational
manner, neither Lady Russell nor Mr. Elliot thought unim-
portant. Family connections were always worth preserving,
good company always worth seeking; Lady Dalrymple had
taken a house, for three months, in Laura Place, and would
be living in style. She had been at Bath the year before,
and Lady Russell had heard her spoken of as a charming
woman. It was very desirable that the connection should
be renewed, if it could be done, without any compromise of
propriety on the side of the Elliots."
6
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 acquaintance.' 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 Honourable Miss Carteret, to be ar-
ranged 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 were
nothing. There was no superiority of manner, accomplish-
ment, 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 awkward, that she
Ꮓ
338
Persuasion.
would never have been tolerated in Camden Place, but for
her birth.
Lady Russell confessed that she had expected something
better; but yet 'it was an acquaintance worth having;'
and when Anne ventured to speak her opinion of them to
Mr. Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in themselves,
but still maintained that, as a family connection, as good
company, as those who would collect good company around
them, they had their value. Anne smiled and said,—
'My idea of good company, Mr. Elliot, is the company
of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of
conversation; that is what I call good company.'
'You are mistaken,' said he, gently, 'that is not good
company that is the best. Good company requires only
birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education
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
connection as far as possible? You may depend upon it,
that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and
as rank 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
to be answered, she added, 'I certainly do think there has
been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquain-
tance. I suppose (smiling) I have more pride than any of
you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so
solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which
we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to
them.'
'Pardon me, my dear cousin, you are unjust to your own
Persuasion.
339
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 accept-
able as acquaintance.'
6
Well,' said Anne, 'I certainly am proud, too proud to
enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place.'
'I love your indignation,' said he; it is very natural.
But here you are in Bath, and the object is to be established
here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong
to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk of being proud; I am called
proud I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself other-
wise; 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 conscience
admitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting
great acquaintance was more than excusable in the view of
defeating her.
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 schoolfellow in Bath, who
had the two strong claims on her attention, of past kind-
ness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs.
Smith, had shown her kindness in one of those periods of
her life when it had been most valuable. Anne had gone
Z 2
340
Persuasion.
unhappy to school, grieving for the loss of a mother whom
she had dearly loved, feeling her separation from home,
and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of strong sensibility and
not high spirits, must suffer at such a time; and Miss
Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the
want of near relations and a settled home, remaining
another year at school, had been useful and good to her in
a way which had considerably lessened her misery, and
could never be remembered with indifference.
Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long'
afterwards, was said to have married a man of fortune, and
this was all that Anne had known of her, till now that their
governess's account brought her situation forward in a more
decided but very different form.
She was a widow, and poor. Her husband had been
extravagant; and at his death, about two years before, had
left his affairs dreadfully involved. She had had difficulties
of every sort to contend with, and in addition to these dis-
tresses had been afflicted with a severe rheumatic fever,
which finally settling in her legs, had made her for the pre-
sent a cripple. She had come to Bath on that account,
and was now in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very
humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a
servant, and of course almost excluded from society.
Their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which
a visit from Miss Elliot would give Mrs. Smith, and Anne
therefore lost no time in going. She mentioned nothing
of what she had heard, or what she intended, at home.
It would excite no proper interest there. She only 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 rekindled. The first
ten minutes had its awkwardness and its emotion. Twelve
years were gone since they had parted, and each presented
a somewhat different person from what the other had ima-
gined. Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming,
silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman
Persuasion.
341
of seven-and-twenty, with every beauty excepting bloom,
and with manners as consciously right as they were inva-
riably gentle; and twelve years had transformed the fine-
looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow of
health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm,
helpless widow, receiving the visit of her former protegée
as a favour; but all that was uncomfortable in the meeting
had soon passed away, and left only the interesting charm
of remembering former partialities and talking over old
times.
Anne found in Mrs. Smith the good sense and agreeable
manners which she had almost ventured to depend on, and
a disposition to converse and be cheerful beyond her expec-
tation. Neither the dissipations of the past-and she had
lived very much in the world-nor the restrictions of the
present; neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed
her heart or ruined her spirits.
In the course of a second visit she talked with great
openness, and Anne's astonishment increased. She could
scarcely imagine a more cheerless situation in itself than
Mrs. Smith's. She had been very fond of her husband-she
had buried him. She had been used to affluence-it was
gone. She had no child to connect her with life and happi-
ness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of per-
plexed affairs, no health to make all the rest supportable.
Her accommodations were limited to a noisy parlour, and a
dark bedroom behind, with no possibility of moving from
one to the other without assistance, which there was only one
servant in the house to afford, and she never quitted the
house but to be conveyed into the warm bath. Yet, in spite
of all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments
only of 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
Le 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 employment which
carried her out of herself, which was from nature alone. It
342
Persuasion.
was the choicest gift of Heaven; and Anne viewed her friend
as one of those instances in which, by a merciful appoint-
ment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost every
other want.
There had been a time, Mrs. Smith told her, when her
spirits had nearly failed. She could not call herself an in-
valid 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 too much of the world to ex-
pect sudden or disinterested attachment any where, but her
illness had proved to her that her landlady had a character
to preserve, and would not use her ill; and she had been
particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of her land-
lady, 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 me so busy
about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little
good to one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood.
She has a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among
those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my mer-
chandise. She always takes the right time for applying.
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 understands
when to speak. She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman.
Hers is a line for seeing human nature; and she has a fund
of good sense and observation, which, as a companion, make
Persuasion.
343
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 something to relate that is entertaining and
profitable, something 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 oppor-
tunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listen-
ing 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, dis-
interested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude,
patience, resignation-of all the conflicts and all the sacri-
fices 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 weak-
ness 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 tremu-
lously, 'there are so many who forget to think seriously till
it is almost too late.'
The husband had
Anne saw the misery of such feelings.
not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among
that part of mankind which made her think worse of the
world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a passing
emotion, however, with Mrs. Smith; she shook it off, and
soon added, in a different tone,-
'I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs. Rooke is
in at present will furnish much either to interest or edify me.
344
Persuasion.
She is only nursing Mrs. Wallis of Marlborough Buildings-
a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable woman, I believe
—and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and
finery. I mean to make my profit of Mrs. 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, and Mrs. Clay, returned one morning from Laura
Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple for
the same evening, and Anne was already engaged to spend
that evening in Westgate Buildings. She was not sorry for
the excuse. They were only asked, she was sure, because
Lady Dalrymple, being kept at home by a bad cold, was
glad to make use of the relationship which had been so
pressed on her,—and she declined on her own account with
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 school
fellow was; and Elizabeth was disdainful, and Sir Walter
severe.
6
'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? That she is
old and sickly. Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have
the most extraordinary taste! Every thing that revolts other
people,-low company, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting
associations, are inviting to you. But surely you may put off
this old lady till to-morrow: she is not so near her end, I
presume, but that she may hope to see another day. What
is her age? Forty?'
No, sir, she is not one-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.'
Persuasion.
345
'But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?"
asked Elizabeth.
'She sees nothing to blame in it,' replied Anne; 'on the
contrary, she approves it; and has generally taken me, when
I have called on Mrs. Smith.'
'Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by
the appearance of a carriage drawn up near its pavement!'
observed Sir Walter. 'Sir Henry Russell's widow, indeed,
has no honours to distinguish her arms; but still, it is a
handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to convey
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 de-
fence 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 sir-name 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 collecting others, and
had been at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and
Mr. Elliot; and Mr. Elliot had made a point of leaving
Colonel Wallis 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 be-
tween her friend and Mr. Elliot; in having been wished for,
346
Persuasion.
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, seemed to have quite de-
lighted Mr. Elliot. He thought her a most extraordinary
young woman; in her temper, manners, mind, a model of
female excellence. He could meet even Lady Russell in 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 be-
ginning 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.
Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you,
and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there
would be every possibility of 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 to all
her rights, and all her popularity, as well as to all her virtues,
Persuasion.
347
You are
would be the highest possible gratification to me.
your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I
might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation,
and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the same
spot, and only superior to her in being more highly valued!
My dearest Anne, it would give me more delight than is
often felt at my time of life!'
Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a
distant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment,
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 imme-
diately 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 him-
self 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 pro-
perly and as a man of principle,-this was all clear enough.
He certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on
any one article of moral duty evidently transgressed; but
yet she would have been afraid to answer for his conduct.
She distrusted the past, if not the present. The names
which occasionally 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-travelling had been a com-
mon thing; that there had been a period of his life (and
348
Persuasion.
probably not a short one) when he had been, at least, care-
less on all serious matters; and, though he might now
think very differently, who could answer for the true sen-
timents of a clever, cautious man, grown old enough to
appreciate a fair character? How could it ever be ascer-
tained 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 openness of Mrs.
Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs. Clay was
about, and to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs. Clay
found him as agreeable as any body.
Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young
friend, for she saw nothing to excite distrust. She could
not imagine a man more exactly what he ought to be than
Mr. Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter feeling than
the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved
Anne in Kellynch church, in the course of the following
autumn.
CHAPTER 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
Persuasion.
349
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,
'February 1.
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, affords little to write about. We have
had a very dull Christmas; Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove have
not had one dinner-party all the holidays. I do not reckon
the 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 understand it.
They are not at all nice children, in my opinion; but Mrs.
Musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not better,
than her grandchildren. What dreadful weather we have
had! It may not be felt in Bath, with your nice pavements;
but in the country it is of some consequence. I have not
had a creature call on me since the second week in January,
350
Persuasion.
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. Charles heard it quite by
chance they have not had the civility 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 any body's.'
So ended the first part, which had been afterwards put
into an envelope, containing nearly as much more.
'I kept my letter open, that I might send you word how
Louisa bore her journey, and now I am extremely glad I did,
having a great deal to add. In the first place, I had a note
from Mrs. Croft yesterday, offering to convey any thing to
you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to me,
Persuasion.
351
just as it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter
as long as I like. The Admiral does not seem very ill, and
I sincerely hope Bath will do him all the good he wants. I
shall be truly glad to have them back again. Our 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.
Musgrove; for it was all settled between him and her before
she came away, and he had written to her father by Captain
Harville. True, upon my honour. Are not 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. Musgrove has written his consent, and Captain Benwick
is expected to-day. Mrs. Harville says her husband feels a
good deal on his poor sister's account; but, however, Louisa
is a great favourite with both. Indeed, Mrs. Harville and I
quite agree that we love her the better for having nursed her.
Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but if
you remember, I never thought him attached to Louisa; I
never could see 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
352
Persuasion.
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 Elizabeth; and without waiting for
an answer, 'And pray what brings the Crofts to Bath?
"They come on the Admiral's account. He is thought to
be gouty.'
'Gout and decrepitude!' said Sir Walter.
gentleman.'
'Poor old
'Have they any acquaintance here?' asked Elizabeth.
'I do not know; but I can hardly suppose that, at Ad-
miral Croft's time of life, and in his profession, he should not
have many acquaintance in such a place as this.'
6
'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 em-
barrass 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.
Persuasion.
353
Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! The high-
spirited, joyous-talking Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected,
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 attrac-
tion? The answer soon presented itself. It had been in
situation. They had been thrown together several weeks;
they had been living in the same small family party; since
Henrietta's coming away, they must have been depending
almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering
from illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain
Benwick was not inconsolable. That was a point which
Anne had not been able to avoid suspecting before; and
instead of drawing the same conclusion as Mary, from the
present course of events, they served only to confirm the
idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness towards
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 could be
allowed to prefer another man, there was nothing in the
engagement to excite lasting wonder; and if Captain Went-
worth lost no friend by it, certainly nothing to be regretted.
No, it was not regret which made Anne's heart beat in
A A
354
Persuasion.
spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks
when she thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and
free. She had some feelings which she was ashamed to
investigate. They were too much like joy, senseless joy!
She longed to see the 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 Ad-
miral'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 navy, Mrs. Croft
looking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around
her.
Anne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be
often walking herself; but it so happened that one morn-
ing, 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; and in walking up Milsom Street, she had the good
Persuasion.
355
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 obliged to touch as
well as address him before she could catch his notice.
When he did perceive and acknowledge her, however, it was
done with all his usual frankness and good-humour.
'Ha!
is it you? Thank you, thank you. This is treating me like
a friend. Here I am, you see, staring at a picture. I can
never get by this shop without stopping. But what a thing
here is, by way of a boat. Do look at it.
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, Cap-
tain 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 any body with me but my wife. She, poor soul,
is tied by the leg. She has a blister on one of her heels as
large as a three-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
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356
Persuasion.
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, Annè 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 were fairly ascending Belmont, he began,—
'Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise
you. But first of all, you must tell me the name of the
young lady I am going to talk about. That young lady,
you know, that we have all been so concerned for. The
Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to. Her
Christian name—I always forget her Christian name.'
Anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so
soon as she really did; but now she could safely suggest the
name of 'Louisa.'
I
'Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name.
wish young ladies had not such a number of fine Christian
I should never be out if they were all Sophys, or
names.
Well, this Miss
Louisa, we all
He was court-
something of that sort.
thought, you know, was to marry Frederick.
ing her week after week. The only wonder was, what they
could be waiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then,
Persuasion.
357
indeed, it was clear enough that they must wait till her
brain was set to right. But even then, there was some-
thing 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. We
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.
wick.'
I am a little acquainted with Captain Ben-
'Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are
married already, for I do not know what they should wait
for.'
I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man,'
said Anne, and I understand that he bears an excellent
character.'
'Oh yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against
James Benwick. He is only a commander, it is true, made
last summer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he
has not another 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
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 Ben-
wick 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 incompati-
ble 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
358
Persuasion.
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 Upper-
cross.'
This was
an opportunity which Anne could not resist;
she said, therefore, I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing
in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and
Mrs. Croft particularly uneasy. It did certainly seem, last
autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and
Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to have
worn out on each side equally and without violence. I hope
his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man.'
'Not at all—not at all: there is not an oath or a murmur
from beginning to end.'
Anne looked down to hide her smile.
•
'No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain;
he has too much spirit for that. If the girl likes another
man better, it is very fit she should have him.'
Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is
nothing in Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make
you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend, which
might appear, you know, without its being absolutely
said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship as
has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should
be destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this
sort.'
'Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at all
of that nature in the letter. He does not give the least
fling at Benwick-does not so much as say, "I wonder at it,
I have a reason of my own for wondering at it." No, you
would not guess, from his way of writing, that he had ever
thought of this Miss (what's her name?) for himself. He very
handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is
nothing very unforgiving in that, I think.'
Anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the
Admiral meant to convey, but it would have been useless
Persuasion.
359
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 par-
son. Do not you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to
get him to Bath?'
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 Dalrymple, to request her
assistance. He soon joined them again, successful, of
course; Lady Dalrymple would be most happy to take
them home, and would call for them in a few minutes.
Her Ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not
hold more than four with any comfort. Miss Carteret was
with her mother; consequently it was not reasonable to
expect accommodation for all the three Camden Place
ladies. There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot. Whoever
suffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occu-
pied 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
360
Persuasion,
rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs. Clay; she would hardly
allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick! much
thicker than Miss Anne's; and, in short, her civility rendered
her quite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr. Elliot as
Anne could be, and it was discussed between them with a
generosity so polite and so determined, that the others were
obliged to settle it for them; Miss Elliot maintaining that
Mrs. Clay had a little cold already, and Mr. Elliot deciding,
on appeal, that his cousin Anne's boots were rather the
thickest.
It was fixed, accordingly, that Mrs. Clay should be of
the party in the carriage; and they had just reached this
point, when Anne, as she sat near the window, descried,
most decidedly and distinctly, Captain Wentworth walking
down the street.
Her start was perceptible only to herself; but she in-
stantly 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 him-
self, 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 con-
fused 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 over-
powering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong
Persuasion.
361
surprise were over with her. Still, however, she had enough
to feel! It was agitation, pain, pleasure, a something
between delight and misery.
He spoke to her, and then turned away. The character
of his manner was embarrassment. She could not have
called it either cold or friendly, or 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 consciousness 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 complete
internal recognition on each side; she was convinced that
he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance,
expecting it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister turn
away with unalterable coldness.
Lady Dalrymple's carriage, for which Miss Elliot was
growing very impatient, now drew up; the servant came
in to announce it. It was beginning to rain again, and
altogether there was a delay, and a bustle, and a talking,
which must make all the little crowd in the shop 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.
362
Persuasion.
'I am much obliged to you,' was her answer, but I am
not going with them. The carriage would not accommodate
so many. I walk: I prefer walking.'
'But it rains.'
'Oh, very little. Nothing that I regard.'
After a moment's pause, he said, 'Though I came only
yesterday, I have equipped myself properly for Bath already,
you see,' pointing to a new umbrella; 'I wish you would
make use of it, if you are determined to walk; though, I
think, it would be more prudent to let me get you a chair.'
She was very much obliged to him, but declined it all,
repeating her conviction, that the rain would come to
nothing at present, 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 eagerness,
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 Wallis's, 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 say so,
but I confess I admire her more than her sister.'
'Oh, so do I.'
Persuasion.
363
'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 hist
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 under-
stand 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.
Another circumstance very essential for her to know, was
how long he meant to be in Bath; he had not mentioned it,
or she could not recollect it. He might be only passing
through. But it was more probable that he should be come
to stay. In that case, so liable as everybody was to meet
everybody in Bath, Lady Russell would in all likelihood see
him somewhere. Would she recollect him? How would it
all be?
She had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that
Louisa Musgrove was to marry Captain Benwick. It had
cost her something to encounter Lady Russell's surprise;
and now, if she were by any chance to be thrown into com-
pany with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of
the matter might add another shade of prejudice against him.
The following morning Anne was out with her friend, and
for the first hour, in an incessant and fearful sort of watch
for him in vain; but at last, in returning down Pulteney
Street, she distinguished him on the right hand pavement.
at such a distance as to have him in view the greater part
of the street. There were many other men about him,
many groups walking the same way, but there was no
mistaking him. She looked instinctively at Lady Russell;
but not from any mad idea of her recognising him so soon
as she did herself. No, it was not to be supposed that
364
Persuasion.
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 handsomest and best
hung of any in Bath, but could not recollect the exact num-
ber, 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 disdain,
either at her friend or herself. The 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
theatre or the rooms, where he was most likely to be, were
not fashionable enough for the Elliots, whose evening amuse-
ments were solely in the elegant stupidity of private parties,
in 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
i
Persuasion.
365
really expected to be a good one, and Captain Wentworth
was very fond of music. If she could only have a few
minutes' conversation with him again, she fancied she should
be satisfied; and as to the power of addressing him, she felt
all over courage if the opportunity occurred. Elizabeth had
turned from him, Lady Russell overlooked him; her nerves
were strengthened by these circumstances; she felt that she
owed him attention.
She had once partly promised Mrs. Smith to spend the
evening with her; but in a short 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
you do come. Who is your party?'
Anne named them all. Mrs. Smith made no reply; but
when she was leaving her, said, and with an expression half
serious, half 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.'
'only tell me all about it, when
Anne was startled and confused; but after standing in a
moment's suspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged,
to hurry away.
CHAPTER VIII.
SIR WALTER, his two daughters, and Mrs. Clay, were the
earliest of all their party, at the rooms in the evening; and
as Lady Dalrymple must be waited for, they took their
station by one of the fires in the octagon room. But hardly
were they so settled, when the door opened again, and Cap-
tain 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 a 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
366
Persuasion.
nothing of their looks, and felt equal to every thing which
she believed right to be done.
While they were speaking, a whispering between her
father and Elizabeth caught her ear. She could not dis-
tinguish, but she must guess the subject; and on Captain
Wentworth's making a distant bow, she comprehended that
her father had judged so well as to give him that simple
acknowledgment of acquaintance, and she was just in time
by a side glance to see a slight courtesy from Elizabeth her-
self. 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 am
'I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme.
afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the more
from its not overpowering you at the time.'
She assured him that she had not.
'It was a frightful hour,' said he, 'a frightful day!' and he
passed his hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were
still too painful; but in a moment, half smiling again, added,
'The day has produced some effects, however,—has had
some consequences which must be considered as the very
reverse of frightful. When you had the presence of mind to
suggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch
a surgeon, you could have little idea of his being eventually
one of those most concerned in her recovery.'
(
Certainly I could have none. But it appears-I should
hope it would be a very happy match. There are on both
sides good principles and good temper.'
6
'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 oppo-
sition, no caprice, no delays. The Musgroves are behaving
like themselves, most honourably and kindly, only anxious
with true parental hearts to promote their daughter's comfort.
Persuasion.
367
All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness;
more than perhaps-
He stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and
to give him some taste of that emotion which was reddening
Anne's cheeks and fixing her eyes on the ground. After
clearing his throat, however, he proceeded thus,——
'I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a
disparity, and in a point no less essential than mind. I
regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered
girl, and not deficient in understanding; but Benwick is
something more. He is a clever man, a reading man ; and
I confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to her with
some surprise. Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he
learnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring
him, it would have been another thing. But I have no
reason to suppose it so. It seems, on the contrary, to have
been a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side,
and this surprises me. A man like him, in his situation!
with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken! Fanny
Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to
her was indeed attachment. A man does not recover from
such a devotion of the heart to such a woman! He ought
not, he does not.'
Either from the consciousness, however, that his friend
had recovered, or from some other consciousness, he went no
farther; and Anne who, in spite of the agitated voice in
which the latter part had been uttered, and in spite of all the
various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam of the
door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had
distinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused,
and beginning to breathe very quick, and feel a hundred
things in a moment. 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 obsti-
368
1
Persuasion.
!
nate 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 anything in Lyme to inspire such a feeling.
The horror and distress you were involved in, the stretch
of mind, the wear of spirits! I should have thought your
last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust.'
6
The last few hours were certainly very painful,' replied.
Anne; but when pain is over, the remembrance of it often
becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place the less
for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering,
nothing but suffering—which was by no means the case at
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 interest-
ing 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 happened to arrive nearly at
the same instant, advanced into the room. The others
joined them, and it was a group in which Anne found her-
self also necessarily included. She was divided from Captain
Wentworth. Their interesting, almost too interesting con-
versation 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
Persuasion.
369
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 gone
-he had disappeared: she felt a moment's regret. But
'they should meet again. He would look for her, he would
find her out 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 recollection.'
Upon Lady Russell's appearance soon afterwards, the
whole party was collected, and all that remained was to
marshal themselves, and proceed into the concert room;
and be of all the consequence in their power, draw as many
eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people
as they could.
Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as
they walked in. Elizabeth, arm-in-arm with Miss 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 com-
parison 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 hist
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 attach-
ment,―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
BB
370
Persuasion.
by the tenderness of the past,-yes, some share of the tender-
ness of the past. She could not contemplate the change as
implying less. He must love her.
These were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which
occupied and flurried her too much to leave her any power
of observation; and she passed along the room without
having a glimpse of him, without even trying to discern
him. When their places were determined on, and they
were all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he
should happen to be in the same part of the room, but he
was not; her eye could not reach him; and the concert
being just opening, she must consent for a time to be happy
in an humbler way.
The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous
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 enter-
tainment of the evening; it was just occupation enough:
she had feelings for the tender, spirits for the gay, attention
for the scientific, and patience for the wearisome; and had
never liked a concert better, at least during the first act.
Towards the close of it, in the interval succeeding an
Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr.
Elliot. They had a concert bill between them.
'This,' said she, 'is nearly the sense, or rather the
meaning of the words, for certainly the sense of an Italian
love-song must not be talked of,—but it is as nearly the
meaning as I can give; for I do not pretend to understand
the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar.'
'Yes, yes, I see you are. I see you know nothing of the
matter. You have only knowledge enough of the language,
to translate at sight these inverted, transposed, curtailed,
Italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant English.
You need not say any thing more of your ignorance. Here
is complete proof.'
'I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be
sorry to be examined by a real proficient.'
Persuasion.
371
བ
'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 accomplish-
ments, 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, accomplishments, 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. Wentworth of
Monkford, Captain Wentworth's brother. He 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 in-
teresting 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.'
BB 2
372
Persuasion.
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 Dalrymple.
'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 Went-
worth, standing among a cluster of men at a little distance.
As her eyes fell on him, his seemed to be withdrawn from
her. It had that appearance. It seemed as if she had been
one moment too late; and, as long as she dared observe, he
did not look again : but the performance was recommencing,
and 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 bene-
ficial change; and, after a period of nothing-saying amongst
the party, some of them did decide on going in quest of tea.
Anne was one of the few who did not choose to move. She
remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell; but she had
the pleasure of getting rid of Mr. Elliot; and she did not
mean, whatever she might feel on Lady Russell's account, to
shrink from conversation with Captain Wentworth, if he gave
her the opportunity. She was persuaded by Lady Russell's
countenance that she had seen him.
Persuasion.
373
He did not come, however. Anne sometimes fancied she
discerned him at a distance, but he never came. The
anxious interval wore away unproductively. The others
returned, the room filled again, benches were reclaimed and
repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of penance was
to be sat out, another hour of music was to give delight or
the 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 resettling 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 her-
self much nearer the end of the bench than she had been
before, much more within the reach of a passer-by. She
could not do so, without comparing herself with Miss
Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles; but still she did it,
and not with much happier effect; though by what seemed
prosperity in the shape of an early abdication in her next
neighbours, she found herself at the very end of the bench
before the concert closed.
Such was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when
Captain Wentworth was again in sight. She saw him not
far off. He saw her too; yet he looked grave, and seemed
irresolute, and only by very slow degrees came at last near
enough to speak to her. She felt that something must be
the matter. The change was indubitable. The difference
between his present air and what it had been in the octagon
room was strikingly 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
374
Persuasion.
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 suffer-
ing spirit.
A few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably
consumed; and when her own mistress again, when able to
turn and look as she had done before, she found herself
accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved yet hurried
sort of farewell. He must wish her good night; he was
going; he should get home as fast as he could.'
'Is not this song worth staying for?' said Anne, suddenly
struck by an idea which made her yet more anxious to be
encouraging.
'No' he replied, impressively, 'there is nothing worth
my staying for;' and he was gone directly.
Jealousy of Mr. Elliot! It was the only intelligible
motive. Captain Wentworth jealous of her affection! Could
she have believed it a week ago—three hours ago For a
moment the gratification was exquisite. But, alas! there
were very different thoughts to succeed. How was such
jealousy to be quieted? How was the truth to reach him?
How, in all the peculiar disadvantages of their respective
situations, would he ever learn her real sentiments? It was
misery to think of Mr. Elliot's attentions. Their evil was
incalculable.
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.
Persuasion.
375
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 situation, by his own senti-
ments, 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 suspense good or bad, her affection would be
his for ever.
Their union, she believed, could not divide
her more from other men than their final separation.
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 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 un-
fledged 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.'
376
Persuasion.
'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 you wanted nothing beyond.'
'But I ought to have looked about me more,' said
Anne, conscious while she spoke, that there had in fact
been no want of looking about; that the object only had
been deficient.
'No, no-you were better employed. You need not tell
me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye.
I perfectly see how the hours passed-that you had always
something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the
concert, it was conversation.'
Anne half smiled, and said, 'Do you see that in my eye?'
'Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that
you were in company last night with the person whom you
think the most agreeable in the world, the person who
interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the
world put together.'
A blush overspread Anne's cheeks.
nothing.
She could say
'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.'
Persuasion.
377
She was still in the astonish-
Anne heard nothing of this.
ment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, un-
able 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 ac-
quaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath?'
'Mr. Elliot' repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A
moment's reflection showed her the mistake she had been
under. She caught it instantaneously; and, recovering
courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more com-
posedly, 'Are you acquainted with Mr. Elliot?'
'I have been a good deal acquainted with him,' replied
Mrs. Smith, gravely, but it seems worn out now.
It is a
great while since we met.'
'I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it
before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of
talking to him about you.'
'To confess the truth,' said Mrs. Smith, assuming her
usual air of cheerfulness, 'that is exactly the pleasure I want
you to have. I want you to talk about me to Mr. Elliot. I
want your interest with him. He can be of essential service
to me; and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss
Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done.'
'I should be extremely happy—I hope you cannot doubt
my willingness to be of even the slightest use to you,' replied
Anne; but I suspect that you are considering me as having
a higher claim on Mr. Elliot, a greater right to influence him,
than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or
other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only
as Mr. Elliot's relation. If in that light, 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 little premature, I perceive. I beg your
pardon. I ought to have waited for official information.
But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an old friend, do give me a
hint as to when I may speak. Next week? To be sure by
next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and build
my own selfish schemes on Mr. Elliot's good fortune.'
✡
378
Persuasion.
'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, 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 suit-
able 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 believe all that of my
cousin. He seems to have a calm, decided temper, not
at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with
great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has
Persuasion.
379
4
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 to imagine he has any thought of
doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you, I shall not. I
assure you, Mr. Elliot had not the share which you have
been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last
night might afford: not Mr. Elliot-it is not Mr. Elliot
that-
She stopped, regretting, with a deep blush, that she had
implied so much; but less would hardly have been suf-
ficient. 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 every body 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 Marl-
borough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who
told me you were to marry Mr. Elliot. She had it from
380
Persuasion.
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
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 circum-
stances; 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 un-
certain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and con-
sidering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many
things to be taken into the account. One hates to be of-
ficious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even
the smooth surface of family union seems worth preserving,
Persuasion.
381
though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I
have determined-I think I am right-I think you ought
to be made acquainted with Mr. Elliot's real character.
Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the
smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what
may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently
affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while
you are unprejudiced. Mr. Elliot is a man without heart
or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who
thinks only of himself; who, for his own interest or ease, would
be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be per-
petrated without risk of his general character. He has no
feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause
of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the
smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of
any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh, he is black at
heart, hollow and black !'
Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made
her pause, and in a calmer manner she added,—
'My expressions startle you. You must allow for an
injured, angry woman. But I will try to command myself.
I will not abuse him. I will only tell you what I have found
him. Facts shall speak. He was the intimate friend of my
dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him
as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before
our marriage. I found them most intimate friends; and I,
too, became excessively pleased with Mr. Elliot, and enter-
tained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know,
one does not think very seriously; but Mr. Elliot appeared
to me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable
than most others, and we were almost always together. We
were principally in town, living in very good style. He was
then the inferior in circumstances-he was then the poor
one; he had chambers in the Temple, and it was as much as
he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman.
had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he was
always welcome; he was like a brother. My poor Charles,
who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would
have divided his last farthing with him; and I know that his
purse was open to him; I know that he often assisted him.”
He
382
Persuasion.
1
•
'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 acquaintance as he did.
My father was certainly disposed to take very kind and
proper notice of him. Why did Mr. Elliot draw back?'
'Mr. Elliot,' replied Mrs. Smith, 'at that period of his life
had one object in view-to make his fortune, and by a
rather quicker process than the law. He was determined to
make it by marriage. He was determined, at least, not to
mar it by an imprudent marriage; and I know it was his
belief (whether justly or not, of course I cannot decide,) that
your father and sister, in their civilities and invitations, were
designing a match between the heir and the young lady;
and it was impossible that such a match should have
answered his ideas of wealth and independence. That was
his motive for drawing back, I can assure you. He told me
the whole story. He had no concealments with me. It
Persuasion.
383
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 hear-
ing 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, probably, which first opened
your eyes to his character.'
Mrs. Smith hesitated a little here. 'Oh, those things are
too common. When one lives in the world, a man or
woman's marrying for money is too common to strike one as
it ought. I was very young, and associated only with the
young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any
strict rules of conduct. We lived for enjoyment. I think
differently now; time, and sickness, and sorrow, have given
me other notions; but, at that period, I must own I saw
nothing reprehensible in what Mr. Elliot was doing. "To
do the best for himself" 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
384
Persuasion.
his own situation 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 assertion? and you shall
have proof.'
Indeed, my dear Mrs. Smith, I want none,' cried Anne.
'You have asserted nothing contradictory to what Mr. Elliot.
appeared to be some years ago. This is all in confirmation,
rather, of what we used to hear and believe. I am more
curious to know why he should be so different now.'
'But for my satisfaction; if you will have the goodness to
ring for Mary-stay, I am sure you will have the still greater
goodness of going yourself into my bedroom, and bringing
me the small inlaid 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
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 im-
methodical, like other men, about those things; and when I
came to examine his papers, I found it with others still more
trivial from different people scattered here and there, while
many letters and memorandums of real importance had
been destroyed. Here it is. I would not burn it, because
being even then very little satisfied with Mr. Elliot, I was
determined to preserve every document of former intimacy.
I have now another motive for being glad that I can pro-
duce it.'
This was the letter, directed to Charles Smith, Esq.,
Tunbridge Wells,' and dated from London, as far back as
July, 1803.
Persuasion.
385
'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 again.
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 advan-
tage to the hammer. The baronet, nevertheless, is not un-
likely to marry again; he is quite fool enough. If he does,
however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a de-
cent equivalent for the reversion. He is worse than last year.
'I wish I had any name but Elliot. I am sick of it. The
name of Walter I can drop, thank God! and I desire you
will never insult me with 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 shows 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 with
us now?'
'I can explain this, too,' cried Mrs. Smith, smiling.
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386
Persuasion.
'Can you really?'
'Yes. I have shown you Mr. Elliot as he was a dozen
years ago, and I will show him as he is now. I cannot pro-
duce written proof again, but I can give as authentic oral
testimony as you can desire, of what he is now wanting, and
what he is now doing. He is no hypocrite now.
He truly
wants to marry you. His present attentions to your family
are very sincere, quite from the heart. I will give you my
authority-his friend Colonel 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 consequence.
The stream is as good as at first; the little rubbish it collects
in the turnings is easily moved away. Mr. Elliot talks un-
reservedly 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 tell 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 Marlborough Buildings.
When I talked of a whole history, therefore, you see I was
not romancing so much as you supposed.'
'My dear Mrs. Smith, your authority is deficient. This
will not do. Mr. Elliot's having any views on me will not in
the least account for the efforts he made towards a recon-
ciliation 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.
1
Persuasion.
387
•
I
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 his-
torian, at least. Is this true? Did he see you last summer
or autumn “somewhere down in the west," to use her own
words, without knowing it to be you?'
'He certainly did. So far it is very true. At Lyme, I hap-
pened to be at Lyme.'
'Well,' continued Mrs. Smith, triumphantly, 'grant my
friend the credit due to the establishment of the first point
asserted. He saw you then at Lyme, and liked you so well
as to be exceedingly pleased to meet with you again in
Camden Place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from that moment,
I have no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there.
But there was another, and an earlier, which I will now
explain. If there is 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 surprise that Miss Elliot should be apparently
blind to the danger.'
Here Mrs. Smith paused a moment; but Anne had not a
word to say, and she continued,—
This was the light in which it appeared to those who
knew the family, long before 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 Christ-
mas, Colonel Wallis made him acquainted with the appear-
ance 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
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388
Persuasion.
baronetcy. Upon all points of blood and connection he is a
completely altered man. Having long had as much money
as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice
or indulgence, he has been gradually learning to pin his
happiness upon the consequence he is heir to. I thought it
coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it is now a
confirmed feeling. He cannot bear the idea of not being
Sir William. You may guess, therefore, that the news he
heard from his friend could not be very agreeable, and you
inay guess what it produced; the resolution of coming back
to Bath as soon as possible, and of fixing himself here for a
time, with the view of renewing his former acquaintance and
recovering such a footing in the family as might give him the
means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of
circumventing the lady if he found it material. This was
agreed upon between the two friends as the only thing to be
done; and Colonel 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.'
me.
'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
manœuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be
revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises
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.'
Persuasion.
389
'He
'Lessening, I understand,' replied Mrs. Smith.
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, maʼamı,”
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. Wallis'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 which, if it did not
perfectly justify the unqualified bitterness of Mrs. Smith,
proved him to have been very unfeeling in his conduct
towards her, very deficient both in justice and compassion.
She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing.
unimpaired by Mr. Elliot's marriage) they had been as
before always together, and Mr. Elliot had led his friend
into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs. Smith did
not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of
throwing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that
390
Persuasion.
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 under-
standing, much more amiable than his friend, and very un-
like 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
prompting 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 addition to the inevitable sufferings of
her situation, had been such as could not be related without
anguish of spirit, or listened to without corresponding
indignation.
Anne was shown some letters of his on the occasion,
answers to urgent applications from Mrs. Smith, which all
breathed the same stern resolution of not engaging in a
fruitless trouble, and, under a cold civility, the same hard-
hearted indifference to any of the evils it might bring on
her. It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and inhu-
manity; 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
minutiæ of distress upon distress, which in former conversa-
tions had been merely hinted at, were dwelt on now with
Persuasion.
391
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 property, 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 employ-
ing others by her want of money. She had no natural
connections to assist her even with their counsel, and she
could not afford to purchase the assistance of the law.
This was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened 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 apprehensive of
losing her friend by it; but on being assured that he could
have made no attempt of that nature, since he did not even
know her to be in Bath, it immediately occurred, that some-
thing might be done in her favour by the influence of the
woman he loved, and she had been hastily preparing to
interest Anne's feelings, as far as the observances due to
Mr. 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 succeed-
ing 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 con-
versation. '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,
392
Persuasion.
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 supposition, which would have
been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too late?
It was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no
longer deceived; and one of the concluding arrangements of
this important conference, which carried them through the
greater part of the morning, was, that Anne had full liberty
to communicate to her friend every thing relative to Mrs.
Smith, in which his conduct was involved.
CHAPTER X.
ANNE went home to think over all that she had heard. In
one point, her feelings were relieved by this knowledge 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 sensations unqualified, unper-
plexed. Pity for him was all over. But this was the only
point of relief. In every other respect, in looking around.
her, or penetrating forward, she saw more to distrust and to
apprehend. She was concerned for the disappointment and
pain Lady Russell would be feeling, for the 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
Persuasion.
393
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 in-
tended, escaped seeing Mr. Elliot; that he had called and
paid them a long morning visit; but hardly had she con-
gratulated herself, and felt safe till to-morrow, when she
heard that he was coming again in the evening.
'I had not the smallest intention of asking him,' said
Elizabeth, with affected carelessness, 'but he gave so many
hints; so Mrs. Clay says, at least.'
'Indeed I do say it. I never saw 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, however,
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 astonish-
ment in a convenient silence.
394
Persuasion.
'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 show such pleasure, as she did, in the expectation and in
the actual arrival of the very person whose presence must
really be interfering with her prime object. Is was im-
possible but that Mrs. Clay must hate the sight of Mr. Elliot;
and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look, and
appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting
herself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have
done otherwise.
To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr. Elliot
enter the room; and quite painful to have him approach
and speak to her. She had been used before to feel that he
could not be always quite sincere, but now she saw insin-
cerity 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 mild-
ness, or the sound of his artificial good sentiments. She
meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might pro-
voke a remonstrance on his side. It was a great object with
her to escape all enquiry or éclat; 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,
Persuasion.
395
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
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 communication; and
she would have gone directly after breakfast, but that Mrs.
Clay was also going out on some obliging purpose of saving
her sister trouble, which determined her to wait till she might
be safe from such a companion. She saw Mrs. Clay fairly
off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the
morning in 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 Rus-
sell 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 arrangé in her air! and she sits so upright! My best
love, of course.'
Make a
'And mine,' added Sir Walter. Kindest regards. And
you may say, that I mean to call upon her soon.
civil message. But I shall only leave my card.
Morning
396
Persuasion.
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.'
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 Musgrove' were ushered
into the room.
Surprise was the strongest emotion raised by their appear-
ance: 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 accom-
modation 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 them-
selves 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, Hen-
rietta, and Captain Harvilie, besides 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
Persuasion.
397
But then, it had been taken
His mother had some old
to be in suspense, or at an end.
up by his father and mother.
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 com-
fortable and easy to Captain Harville; and he and Mary were
included in it, by way of general convenience. They had
arrived late the night before. Mrs. Harville, her children,
and Captain Benwick, remained with Mr. Musgrove and
Louisa at Uppercross.
Anne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forward-
ness 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 Uppercross, and in
In the centre
a very fine country-fine part of Dorsetshire.
of some of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by
hree great proprietors, cach more careful and jealous than
the other; and to two of the three, at least, Charles Hayter
might get a special recommendation. Not that he will value
it as he ought,' he observed: Charles is too cool about
sporting. That's the worst of him.'
I am extremely glad, indeed,' cried Anne, 'particularly
glad that this should happen; and that of two sisters, who
both deserve equally well, and who have always been such
good friends, the pleasant prospects of one should not be
dimming those of the other-that they should be so equal
in their prosperity and comfort. I hope your father and
mother are quite happy with regard to both.'
'Oh yes! My father would be as well pleased if the
398
Persuasion.
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 operation, and it
straitens 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 mar-
riages. They do everything to confer happiness, I am sure.
What a blessing to young people to be in such hands!
Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those
ambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct
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 value
for Benwick; 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.'
Persuasion.
399
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 bless-
ings 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 betray, witnessed by those who had been
always so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch. It was a
struggle between propriety and vanity; but vanity got the
better, and then Elizabeth was happy again. These were
her internal persuasions:-' Old fashioned notions-country
hospitality—we do not profess to give dinners-few people
in Bath do-Lady Alicia never does; did not even ask her
own sister's family, though they were here a month; and I
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 invi-
tation was given to the two present, and promised for the
absent, Mary was as completely satisfied. She was parti-
cularly asked to meet Mr. Elliot, and be introduced to Lady
400
Persuasion.
Dalrymple 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 con-
sequence, 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 contri-
buted 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-im-
proved views, 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 entreated 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 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 re-
commendations to shops; with intervals of every help which
Mary required, from altering her riband 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, un-
settled scene. One five minutes brought a note, the next
Persuasion.
401
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 Captains Har-
ville and Wentworth. The appearance of the latter could
not be more than the surprise of the moment. It was im-
possible 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 open-
ing his feelings; she had derived from it a delightful
conviction; but she feared from his looks, that the same un-
fortunate persuasion, which had hastened him away from
the concert-room, still governed. He did not seem to want
to be near enough for conversation.
She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their
course; and tried to dwell much on this argument of ra-
tional dependence:-'Surely, if there be constant attach-
ment on each side, our hearts must understand each other
ere long. We are not boy and girl, to be captiously irrit-
able, misled by every moment's inadvertence, 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, could only be
exposing them to inadvertencies and misconstructions of
the most mischievous kind.
'Anne,' cried Mary, still at her window, there is Mrs.
Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, 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 look-
ing at her; the consciousness of which vexed and embar-
rassed 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
DD
402
Persuasion.
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 un-
concerned. Her distress returned, however, on perceiving
smiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of
the lady visiters, as if they believed themselves quite in the
secret. It was evident that the report concerning her had
spread; and a short pause succeeded, which seemed to
ensure that it would now spread farther.
'Do come, Anne,' cried Mary, 'come and look yourself.
You will be too late, if you do not make haste. They are
parting, they are shaking hands. He 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. Elliot (which she
had never believed), before he disappeared on one side, ast
Mrs. Clay walked quickly off on the other; and checking
the surprise which she could not but feel at such an appear-
ance of friendly conference between two persons of totally
opposite interests, she calmly said, 'Yes, it is Mr. Elliot
certainly. He has changed his hour of going, I suppose,
that is all-or I may be mistaken; I might not attend;'
and walked back to her chair, recomposed, and with the
comfortable hope of having acquitted herself well.
The visiters 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 ex-
claiming,—
Persuasion.
403
'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 connections-on purpose 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 you must go, Charles. It would be unpardonable to
fail. We were asked on purpose to be introduced. There
was always such a great connection between the Dalrymples
and ourselves. Nothing ever happened on either side that
was not announced immediately. We are quite near rela-
tions, 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 repre-
sentative of the family.'
6
'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
inquiring 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.
DD 2
404
Persuasion.
'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 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 barefaced design,
by Anne.
'You have not been long enough in Bath,' said he, 'to
enjoy the evening parties of the place.'
'Oh no.
The usual character of them has nothing for me.
I am no card-player.'
'You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like
cards; but time makes many changes.'
'I am not yet so much changed,' cried Anne, and stopped,
fearing she hardly knew what misconstruction. After wait-
ing a few moments he said—and as if it were the result of
immediate feeling-' It is a period, indeed! Eight years and
a half is a period!'
Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to
Anne's imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour; for
while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she was
startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to make use
Persuasion.
405
4
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 per-
fectly ready, and tried to look it; but she felt that could
Henrietta have known the regret and reluctance of her heart
in quitting that chair, in preparing to quit the room, she
would have found, in all her own sensations for her cousin,
in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity her.
Their preparations, however, were stopped short. Alarm-
ing sounds were heard; other visiters approached, and the
door was thrown open for Sir Walter and Miss Elliot, whose
entrance seemed to give a general chill. Anne felt an
instant oppression, and, wherever she looked, saw symptoms
of the same. The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the
room was over, hushed into cold composure, determined
silence, or insipid talk, to meet the heartless elegance of her
father and sister. How mortifying to feel that it was so !
6
Her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular. Captain
Wentworth was acknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth
more graciously than before. She even addressed him once,
and looked at him more than once. Elizabeth was, in fact,
revolving a great measure. The sequel explained it. After
the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper nothings, she
began to give the invitation which was to comprise all the
remaining 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 her-
self, 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 appearance
as his. The past was nothing. The present was that Cap-
...tain 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
406
Persuasion.
of the invitation she had with such astonishment witnessed;
and of the manner in which it had been received, a manner
of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than gratification, of
polite acknowledgment rather than acceptance. She knew
him; she saw disdain in his eye; and could not venture to
believe that he had determined to accept such an offering
as 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 considering it.
'Only think of Elizabeth's including every body!' whis-
pered Mary very audibly. 'I do not wonder Captain
Wentworth is delighted! You see he cannot put the card
out of his hand.'
Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth
form itself into a momentary expression of contempt, and
turned away, that she might neither see nor hear more to vex
her.
The party separated. The gentlemen had their own
pursuits, the ladies proceeded on their 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 move, 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 fre-
quent 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
Persuasion.
407
discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of very
opposite feelings.
She only roused herself from the broodings of this restless.
agitation, to let Mrs. Clay know that she had been seen
with Mr. 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 herself, 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 ex-
claimed, 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
learned the extension of your plan, and all that had hap-
pened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely
out of my head.'
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 little touched by Mr. Elliot'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.
408
Persuasion.
She could not keep her appointment punctually, however;
the weather was unfavourable, and she had grieved over the
rain on her friend's 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 first to arrive. The party before her were, Mrs.
Musgrove talking to Mrs. Croft, and Captain Harville to
Captain Wentworth; and she immediately heard that Mary
and Henrietta, too impatient to wait, had gone out the
moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon, and
that the strictest injunctions had been left with Mrs. Mus-
grove, to keep her there till they returned. She had only
to submit, sit down, be outwardly composed, and feel her-
self 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 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 inconvenient.
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 thought-
ful 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-minutia which, even with every advantage
Persuasion.
409
of taste and delicacy, which good Mrs. Musgrove could
not give, could be properly interesting only to the princi-
pals. 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 diffi-
culties together, than be involved in a long engagement. I
always think that no mutual-
Oh! dear Mrs. Croft,' cried Mrs. Musgrove, unable to
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!'
'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 un-
wise; and what I think all parents should prevent as far as
they can.'
Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt it in
its application to herself-felt it in a nervous thrill all over
her; and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively
glanced towards the distant table, Captain Wentworth's pen
ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening, and
he turned round the next instant to give a look-one quick,
conscious look at her.
The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same
410
Persuasion.
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 invi-
tation. 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 Wentworth'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 Benwick.'
'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. am not sorry,
indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes 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.'
Persuasion.
4II
She doted on him.'
'It was not in her nature.
'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 profession, pursuits, business
of some sort or other, to take you back into the world
immediately, and continual occupation and change soon
weaken impressions.'
(
Granting your assertion that the world does all this so
soon for men, (which, however, I do not think I shall grant,)
it does not apply to Benwick. 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 Benwick.'
'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 priva-
tions, 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
C
412
Persuasion.
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 Har-
ville 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 had been occupied
by them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not.
think he could have caught.
6
Have you finished your letter?' said Captain Harville.
Not quite a few lines more. I shall have done in five
minutes.'
'There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready when-
ever 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 of the
argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my
life which had not something to say upon woman's incon-
stancy. 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 circumstances (perhaps those
Persuasion.
413
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 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!" 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 him-
self, 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 gone.
She could not immediately have uttered another sentence;
her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed.
'You are a good soul,' cried Captain Harville, putting his
hand on her arm, quite affectionately. There is no quar-
414
Persuasion.
relling with you. And when I think of Benwick, my tongue
is tied.'
Their attention was called towards the others. Mrs.
Croft was taking leave.
'Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe,'
said she. 'I am going home, and you have an engage-
ment with your friend. To-night we may have the plea-
sure 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 our-
selves?'
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 showed impatience
to be gone.
Anne knew not how to understand it. She
had the kindest 'Good morning, God bless you!' from
Captain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look!
He had passed out of the room without a look!
She had only time, however, to move closer to the table
where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard re-
turning; 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 revolution which one instant had made in Anne was
almost beyond expression. The letter, with a direction
hardly legible, to 'Miss A. E-,' was evidently the one
Persuasion.
415
which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to
be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also.
addressing her! On the contents of that letter depended
all which this world could do for her! Any thing was pos-
sible, 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, succeeding to the very
spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured
the following words:-
'I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you
by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my
soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am
too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I
offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own,
than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.
Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his
love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.
Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been,
but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath.
For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this?
Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not
waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings,
as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly
write. I am every instant hearing something which over-
powers 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 undevi-
ating, in
'F. W.
'I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return
hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word,
a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your
father's house this evening, or never.'
Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half
an hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillised
her; but the ten minutes only, which now passed before she
416
Persuasion.
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 to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled,
and said,-
'I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood.
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.'
Persuasion.
417
'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 morn-
ing, 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.
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 appa-
rent.
They were in Union Street, when a quicker step behind,
a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments'
preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined
them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on,
said nothing-only looked. Anne could command herself
enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The
cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the move-
ments which had hesitated were decided. He walked by
her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles
said,
'Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? only to
Gay Street, or farther up the town?'
'I hardly know,' replied Captain Wentworth, surprised.
'Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near
Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no
scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne
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418
Persuasion.
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 pro-
mised 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 proceeding together;
and soon words enough had passed between them to decide
their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired.
gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make
the present hour a blessing indeed; and prepare it for all
the iminortality 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 returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy,
perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first pro-
jected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge
of each other's character, truth, and attachment; more equal
to act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly
paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around
them, 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 explanations 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.
been the retarding weight, the
Jealousy of Mr. Elliot had
doubt, the torment. That
had begun to operate in the very hour of first meeting her
Persuasion.
419
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 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 Harville; and under the irre-
sistible governance of which 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 uncon-
sciously, 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 for-
titude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge
that only at Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and
only at Lyme had he begun to understand 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 un-
derstood 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
learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of principle and
the obstinacy of self-will, between the darings of heedless-
ness and the resolution of a collected mind. There, he
had seen every thing to exalt in his estimation the woman
EE 2
420
Persuasion.
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 enter-
tained a doubt of our mutual attachment. I was startled
and shocked. To a degree, I could contradict this in-
stantly; 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 conse-
quence in many ways; and that I had 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 him-
self; 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 Har-
villes 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
Persuasion.
421
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 blindness
of his own pride, and the blunders of his own calculations,
till at once released from Louisa by the astonishing and
felicitous intelligence of her engagement with Benwick.
'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 dread-
ful. 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 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. Elliot'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 eligi-
bilities 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 indif-
ferent, 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
422
Persuasion.
sight of the friend who sat behind you, was not the recol-
lection 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
should not have suspected me now; the case so different,
and my age so different. If I was wrong in yielding to per-
suasion once, remember that 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 know-
ledge 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 enjoyment.
Persuasion.
423
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 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 Mus-
groves, 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 inoments of communica-
tion 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-
6
I have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially
to judge of the right and wrong, I mean with regard to my-
self; 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 ser-
vice. 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
424
Persuasion.
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 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 sug-
gested 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. Six 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.'
1
Persuasion.
4,25
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 Went-
worth 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 Elizabeth did nothing worse than
look cold and unconcerned. Captain Wentworth, with five-
and-twenty thousand pounds, and as high in his profession
as merit and activity could place him, was no longer 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, 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 feeling
426
Persuasion.
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 to
indicate a character of dangerous impetuosity; and that
because Mr. Elliot's manners had precisely pleased her in
their propriety and correctness, their general politeness and
suavity, she had been too quick in receiving them as the
certain result of the most correct opinions and well-regu-
lated 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 Russell
had been less gifted in this part of understanding than her
young friend. But she was a very good woman, 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 hardship 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 im-
mediately gratified by the circumstance. It was creditable
to have a sister married, and she might flatter herself with
having been greatly instrumental to the connection, by
keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and as her own sister
must be better than her husband's sisters, it was very agree-
able that Captain Wentworth should be a richer man than
either Captain Benwick or Charles Hayter. She had some-
thing 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
Persuasion.
427
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 pro-
bable 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 disappointed, 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 evi-
dent how double a game he had been playing, and ho
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 possibility
of scheming longer for Sir Walter. She has abilities, how-
ever, 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.
It cannot be doubted that Sir Walter 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
428
Persuasion.
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 disproportion 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 harmony, 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
otherwise 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 himself.
Lady Russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, 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 everything 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 property 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 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 im-
provement 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 pros-
perity. 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.
Persuasion.
429
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.
SPOTTISWOODE
LONDON: PRINTED BY
AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT Street

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1969
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