Chapter 16 here was
one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have been more thankful to ascertain, even than Mr. Elliot’s being in love with
Elizabeth, which was, her father’s not being in love with Mrs. Clay; and she was very far from easy about it, when she had been at home a few hours. On going down to breakfast the next morning, she found there had just been a decent pretence on the lady’s side of meaning to leave them.
She could imagine Mrs. Clay to have said, that “now Miss Anne was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted;” for Elizabeth was replying, in a sort of whisper, “That must not be any reason, indeed. I assure you I feel it none. She is nothing to me, compared with you;” and she was in
full time to hear her father say, “My dear Madam, this must not be. As yet, you have seen nothing of Bath. You have
been here only to be useful. You must not run away from us now. You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs. Wallis, the
beautiful Mrs. Wallis. To your fine mind, I well know the sight of beauty is a real gratification.”
He spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne was not surprised to see Mrs. Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth
and herself. Her countenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise of the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister. The lady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay.
In the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be alone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he thought her “less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her complexion, greatly improved — clearer, fresher. Had she been using any thing in particular?” “No, nothing.” “Merely Gowland,” he supposed.
“No, nothing at all.” “Ha! he was surprised at that;” and added, “Certainly you cannot do better than to continue
as you are; you cannot be better than well; or I should recommend 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 a marriage would be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also to marry. As for herself, she might always command a home with Lady Russell.
Lady Russell’s composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial on this point, in her intercourse in Camden-place. The sight of Mrs. Clay in such favour, and of Anne so overlooked, was a perpetual provocation to her there; and vexed her as much when she was away, as a person in Bath who drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and has a very large acquaintance, has time to be vexed.
As Mr. Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more indifferent, towards the others. His
manners were an immediate recommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully supporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne, almost ready to exclaim, “Can this be Mr. Elliot?” and could not seriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable
man. Every thing united in him; good understanding, correct opinions, knowledge of the world, and a warm heart.
He had strong feelings of family-attachment and family- honour, without pride or 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 enthusiasm 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 process in the world of time upon a head naturally clear, and only erring in the heyday of youth. Anne presumed,
however, still to smile about it; and at last to mention “Elizabeth.” Lady Russell listened, and looked, and made only this cautious reply: “Elizabeth! Very well. Time will explain.”
It was a reference to the future, which Anne, after a little observation, felt she must submit to. She could determine nothing at present. In that house Elizabeth must be first; and she was in the habit of such general observance as “Miss Elliot,” that any particularity of attention seemed almost impossible. Mr. Elliot, too, it must be remembered, had not been a widower seven months. A little delay on his
side might be very excusable. In fact, Anne could never see the crape round his hat, without fearing that she was the inexcusable one, in attributing to him such imaginations; for though his marriage had not been very happy, still it had existed so many years that she could not comprehend a
very rapid recovery from the awful impression of its being dissolved.
However it might end, he was without any question their pleasantest acquaintance in Bath; she saw nobody equal to him; and it was a great indulgence now and then to talk to him about Lyme, which he seemed to have as lively a wish to see again, and to see more of, as herself. They went through the particulars of their first meeting a great many times. He gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some earnestness. She knew it well; and she remembered another person’s look also.
They did not always think alike. His value for rank and connexion she perceived was 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 contact with nobility, and she must acknowledge herself disappointed. She had hoped better things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and was reduced to form a
wish which she had never foreseen—a wish that they had more pride; for “our cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret;” “our cousins, the Dalrymples,” sounded in her ears all day long. 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 consequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter’s at the same time, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch.
No letter of condolence had been sent to Ireland. The neglect had been visited on the head of the sinner, for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no letter of condolence was received at Kellynch, and, consequently, there was but too much reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered
the relationship as closed. How to have this anxious business set to rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question; and it was a question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady Russell nor Mr. Elliot thought unimportant.
“Family connexions were always worth preserving, good company always worth seeking; Lady Dalrymple had taken a house, for three months, in Laura-place, and would be living in style. She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had heard her spoken of as a charming woman. It was very desirable that the connexion should be renewed,
if it could be done, without any compromise of propriety on the side of the Elliots.”
Sir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a very fine letter of ample explanation, regret and entreaty, to his right honourable cousin. Neither Lady
Russell nor Mr. Elliot could admire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three lines of scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess. “She was very much honoured, and should be happy in their 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 Hon. Miss Carteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most visible; and “Our cousins in Laura-place,” — ”Our cousin, 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, accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of “a charming woman,” because she had a smile and a civil answer for every body. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have
been tolerated in Camden-place but for her birth.
Lady Russell confessed she had expected something
better; but yet “it was an acquaintance worth having,” and when Anne ventured to speak her opinion of them to Mr.
Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in themselves, but still maintained that as a family connexion, 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 those good ladies in Laura-place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion
as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for.”
“Yes,” sighed Anne, “we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!”— then recollecting herself, and not wishing
to be answered, she added, “I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance.
I suppose (smiling) I have more pride than any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them.”
“Pardon me, my dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London, perhaps, in your present quiet style of
living, it might be as you say; but in Bath, Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing, always acceptable as acquaintance.”
“Well,” said Anne, “I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place.”
“I love your indignation,” said he; “it is very natural. But here you are in Bath, and the object is to be established
here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk of being proud, I am called proud I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself otherwise, for our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little different. In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin, (he continued, speaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) in one point, I am sure, we must feel alike. We must
feel that every addition to your father’s society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him.”
He looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs. Clay had been lately occupying, a sufficient explanation of what
he particularly meant; and though Anne could not believe in 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 17 hile Sir
Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good fortune in Lauraplace,
Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very different description.
She had called on her former governess, and had heard
from her of there being an old school-fellow in Bath, who
had the two strong claims on her attention, of past kindness
and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs. Smith,
had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her life
when it had been most valuable. Anne had gone unhappy to
school, grieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly
loved, feeling her separation from home, and suffering as
a girl of fourteen, of strong sensibility and not high spirits,
must suffer at such a time; and Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the want of near relations
and a settled home, remaining another year at school, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably
lessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference.
Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long
afterwards, was said to have married a man of fortune, and
this was all that Anne had known of her, till now that their
governess’s account brought her situation forward in a more
decided but very different form.
She was a widow, and poor. Her husband had been extravagant;
and at his death, about two years before, had left
his affairs dreadfully involved. She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and in addition to these distresses,
had been afflicted with a severe rheumatic fever, which
finally settling in her legs, had made her for the present a cripple. She had come to Bath on that account, and was
now in lodgings near the hot-baths, living in a very humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant,
and of course almost excluded from society.
Their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which
a visit from Miss Elliot would give Mrs. Smith, and Anne
therefore lost no time in going. She mentioned nothing
of what she had heard, or what she intended, at home. It
would excite no proper interest there. She only consulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments,
and was most happy to convey her as near to Mrs. Smith’s
lodgings in Westgate-buildings, as Anne chose to be taken. The visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established,
their interest in each other more than re-kindled. The first
ten minutes had its awkwardness and its emotion. Twelve years were gone since they had parted, and each presented a
somewhat different person from what the other had imagined.
Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming,
silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman
of seven-and-twenty, with every beauty excepting bloom,
and with manners as consciously right as they were invariably
gentle; and twelve years had transformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow of health
and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless
widow, receiving the visit of her former protegeй as a favour;
but all that was uncomfortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left only the interesting charm of remembering
former partialities and talking over old times.
Anne found in Mrs. Smith the good sense and agreeable
manners which she had almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be cheerful beyond her expectation. Neither the dissipations of the past — and she had lived very much in the world, nor the restrictions of the present; neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed
her heart or ruined her spirits.
In the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and Anne’s astonishment increased. She could scarcely imagine a more cheerless situation in itself than Mrs. Smith’s. She had been very fond of her husband,— she had buried him. She had been used to affluence,— it was gone. She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of
perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest supportable.
Her accommodations were limited to a noisy parlour, and a dark bed-room 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 be patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here was something more; here was that
elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding
employment which carried her out of herself, which was
from Nature alone. It was the choicest gift of Heaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which,
by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance
almost every other want.
There had been a time, Mrs. Smith told her, when her
spirits had nearly failed. She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her state on first reaching Bath. Then, she had indeed been a pitiable object — for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken possession of her lodgings, before she was again confined to her bed, and
suffering under severe and constant pain; and all this 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 expect 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 landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in that
house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in
time to attend her.—”And she,” said Mrs. Smith, “besides nursing me most admirably, has really proved an invaluable
acquaintance. — As soon as I could use my hands, she
taught me to knit, which has been a great amusement; and she put me in the way of making these little thread-cases,
pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find 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 had a large acquaintance, of course professionally,
among those who can afford to buy, and she disposes
of my merchandize. She always takes the right time for 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 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
opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting.
What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation — of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Smith more doubtingly, “sometimes it may, though I fear its lessons are not often in the elevated
style you describe. Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial, but generally speaking it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber; it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world! — and unfortunately” (speaking low and tremulously) “there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late.”
Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among
that part of mankind which made her think worse of the world, than she hoped it deserved. It was but a passing emotion however with Mrs. Smith, she shook it off, and soon added in a different tone,
“I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs. Rooke is in at present, will furnish much either to interest or edify me. — She is only nursing Mrs. Wallis of Marlborough-buildings — a mere 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 Lauraplace, 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 schoolfellow
was; and Elizabeth was disdainful, and Sir Walter severe.
“Westgate-buildings!’ said he; “and who is Miss Anne
Elliot to be visiting in Westgate-buildings? — A Mrs. Smith.
A widow Mrs. Smith, — and who was her husband? One of
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 tomorrow. She is not so near her end, I
presume, but that she may hope to see another day. What
is her age? Forty?”
“No, Sir, she is not one and thirty; but I do not think I
can put off my engagement, because it is the only evening
for some time which will at once suit her and myself. — She
goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and for the rest of the
week you know we are engaged.”
“But what does Lady Russell think of this 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 Westgatebuildings! —
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 defense of her
friend’s not very dissimilar claims to theirs, but her sense of
personal respect to her father prevented her. She made no
reply. She left it to himself to recollect, that Mrs. Smith was
not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with
little to live on, and no sirname of dignity.
Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and
of course she heard the next morning that they had had a
delightful evening.— She had been the only one of the set
absent; for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not only been quite
at her ladyship’s service themselves, but had actually been
happy to be employed by her in 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 between her friend and
Mr. Elliot, in having been wished for, regretted, and at the
same time honoured for staying away in such a cause.— Her
kind, compassionate visits to this old schoolfellow, sick and
reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr. Elliot. He
thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her
temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. He
could meet even Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits;
and Anne could not be given to understand so much by her
friend, could not know herself to be so highly rated by a
sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations
which her friend meant to create.
Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion
of Mr. Elliot. She was as much convinced of his meaning
to gain Anne in time, as of his deserving her; and was
beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would
free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood,
and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of
pleasing. She would not speak to Anne with half the certainty
she felt on the subject, she would venture on little
more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible
attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance,
supposing such attachment to be real, and returned. Anne
heard her, and made no violent exclamations. She only
smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.
“I am no match-maker, as you well know,” said Lady
Russell, “being much too well aware of the uncertainty
of all human events and calculations. I only mean that if
Mr. 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 everybody must consider it — but
I think it might be a very happy one.”
“Mr. Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in
many respects I think highly of him,” said Anne; “but we
should not suit.”
Lady Russell let this 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, would be the highest possible gratification to me. — You are 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 immediately
resist. Lady Russell said not another word, willing to
leave the matter to its own operation; and believing that,
could Mr. Elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken
for himself! — She believed, in short, what Anne did not
believe. The same image of Mr. Elliot speaking for himself,
brought Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch
and of “Lady Elliot” all faded away. She never could accept
him. And it was not only that her feelings were still
adverse to any man save one; her judgement, on a serious
consideration of the possibilities of such a case, was against
Mr. Elliot.
Though they had now been acquainted a month, she
could not be satisfied that she really knew his character.
That he was a sensible man, an agreeable man,— that he
talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to judge properly
and as a man of principle, — this was all clear enough.
He certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any
one article of moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet
she would have been afraid to answer for his conduct. She
distrusted the past, if not the present. The names which
occasionally 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 common thing;
that there had been a period of his life (and probably not a
short one) when he had been, at least, careless in all serious
matters; and, though he might now think very differently,
who could answer for the true sentiments of a clever, cautious
man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair character?
How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly
cleansed?
Mr. Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, — but he was
not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth
of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others. This,
to Anne, was a decided imperfection. Her early impressions
were incurable. She prized the frank, the open-hearted, the
eager character beyond all others. Warmth and enthusiasm
did captivate her still. She felt that she could so much more
depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked
or said a careless or 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 everybody. He had
spoken to her with some degree of openness of Mrs. Clay;
had appeared completely to see what Mrs. Clay was about,
and to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs. Clay found him
as agreeable as anybody.
Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young
friend, for she saw nothing to excite distrust. She could
not imagine a man more exactly what he ought to be than
Mr. Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter feeling than the
hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved Anne in
Kellynch church, in the course of the following autumn.
Chapter 18
 t was the
beginning of February; and Anne, having
been a month in Bath, was growing very eager for news
from Uppercross and Lyme. She wanted to hear much
more than Mary communicated. It was three weeks
since she had heard at all. She only knew that Henrietta
was at home again; and that Louisa, though considered to
be recovering fast, was still in 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 have 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.
February 1st, ——.
My dear Anne,
I make no apology for my silence, because I know how little people think of letters in such a place as Bath. You must be a great deal too happy to care for 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 anybody. 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 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 grand-children. 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, 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 of offering 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 everything proper. Yours affectionately,
Mary M— — — -.
I am sorry to say that I am very far from well; and Jemima
has just told me that the butcher says there is a bad sorethroat very much about. I dare say I shall catch it; and my
sore-throats, you know, are always worse than anybody’s. So ended the first part, which had been afterwards put
into an envelope, containing nearly as much more.
I kept my letter open, that I might send you word how Louisa bore her journey, and now I am extremely glad I did, having a great deal to add. In the first place, I had a note from Mrs. Croft yesterday, offering to convey anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to me, just as it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter as long as I like. The admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely hope Bath will do him all the good he wants. I shall be truly glad to have them back again. Our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant family. But now for Louisa. I have something to communicate that will astonish you not a little. She and
the 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 anything of it. And this is the end, you see, of Captain Benwick’s being supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles could take such a thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me. I hope he will be
more agreeable now. Certainly not a great match for Louisa Musgrove, but a million times better than marrying among
the Hayters.
Mary need not have feared her sister’s being in any degree prepared for the news. She had never in her life been
more astonished. Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! It was almost too wonderful for belief; and it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room, preserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the moment. Happily for her, they were not many. Sir Walter wanted to know whether the Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they were likely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss Elliot and himself
to visit in; but had little curiosity beyond.
“How is Mary?” said Elizabeth; and without waiting for
an answer, “And pray what brings the Crofts to Bath?”
“They come on the Admiral’s account. He is thought to
be gouty.”
“Gout and decrepitude!” said Sir Walter. “Poor old gentleman.” “Have they any acquaintance here?” asked Elizabeth.
“I do not know; but I can hardly suppose that, at Admiral Croft’s time of life, and in his profession, he should not have many acquaintance in such a place as this.”
“I suspect,” said Sir Walter coolly, “that Admiral Croft
will be best known in Bath as the renter of Kellynch-hall. Elizabeth, may we venture to present him and his wife in Laura-place?’
“Oh, no! I think not. Situated as we are with Lady Dalrymple, cousins, we ought to be very careful not to embarrass
her with acquaintance she might not approve. If we were not related, it would not signify; but as cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours. We had better leave the Crofts to find their own level. There are several odd-looking men walking about here, who, I am told,
are sailors. The Crofts will associate with them!” This was Sir Walter and Elizabeth’s share of interest in the letter; when Mrs. Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an enquiry after Mrs. Charles Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was at liberty.
In her own room, she tried to comprehend it. Well might Charles wonder how Captain Wentworth would feel! Perhaps he had quitted the field, had given Louisa up, had
ceased to love, had found he did not love her. She could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin to ill-usage between him and his friend. She could not endure that such a friendship as theirs should be severed unfairly. Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! The high-spirited,
joyous, talking Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading Captain Benwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other. Their minds most dissimilar! Where could have been the attraction? The answer soon presented itself. It had been in situation. They
had been thrown together several weeks; they had been living in the same small family party; since Henrietta’s coming away, they must have been depending almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering from illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain Benwick was not
inconsolable. That was a point which Anne had not been able to avoid suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as Mary, from the present course of events, they served only to confirm the idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself. She did not
mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her vanity, than Mary might have allowed. She was persuaded that any tolerably pleasing young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for him, would have received the same compliment. He had an affectionate heart. He must love
somebody.
She saw no reason against their being happy. Louisa had fine naval fervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike. He would gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott and Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they had fallen in love 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 Wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly nothing to be regretted.
No, it was not regret which made Anne’s heart beat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks
when she thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and free. She had some feelings which she was ashamed to investigate.
They were too much like joy, senseless joy! She longed to see the 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 Gaystreet, perfectly to Sir Walter’s satisfaction. He was not at all ashamed of the acquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about the Admiral, than the Admiral
ever thought or talked about him.
The Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they
wished for, and considered their intercourse with the Elliots as a mere matter of form, and not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure. They brought with them their country habit of being almost always together. He was ordered to walk, to keep off the gout, and Mrs. Croft seemed to go shares with him in every thing, and to walk for her life, to do him good. Anne saw them wherever she went. Lady Russell took her out in her carriage almost every morning,
and she never failed to think of them, and never failed to see them. Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most attractive picture of happiness to her. She always watched them as long as she could; delighted to fancy she understood what they might be talking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally delighted to see the Admiral’s hearty shake of the hand when he encountered an old friend, and observe their eagerness of conversation
when occasionally forming into a little knot of the 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 morning,
about a week or ten days after the Croft’s arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or her friend’s carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone to Camden-place; and in walking up Milsom-street, she had the good fortune to meet with the Admiral. He was standing by himself at a printshop window, with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation of some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was 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. Did you ever see the like?
What queer fellows your fine painters must be, to think that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless old
cockleshell as that? And yet, here are two gentlemen stuck up in it mightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and mountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they certainly must be. I wonder where that boat was built!” (laughing heartily) “I would not venture over a horsepond in it. Well,” (turning away) “now, where are you bound? Can I go any where for you, or with you? Can I be of any use?”
“None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure
of your company the little way our road lies together. I am going home.”
“That I will, with all my heart, and farther too. Yes, yes, we will have a snug walk together; and I have something to tell you as we go along. There, take my arm; that’s right; I
do not feel comfortable if I have not a woman there. Lord! what a boat it is!” taking a last look at the picture, as they began to be in motion.
“Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?”
“Yes, I have. Presently. But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I shall only say, “How d’ye do,” as we pass, however. I shall not stop. “How d’ye do.” Brigden stares to see
anybody with me but my wife. She, poor soul, is tied by the leg. She has a blister on one of her heels, as large as a three-shilling piece. If you look across the street, you will see Admiral Brand coming down and his brother. Shabby fellows, both of them! I am glad they are not on this side
of the way. Sophy cannot bear them. They played me a pitiful trick once — got away with some of my best men. I will tell you the whole story another time. There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson. Look, he sees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife. Ah! the 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 in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and are snug as if we were
at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at North Yarmouth and Deal. We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I
can tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North Yarmouth. The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same way.”
When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for what he had to communicate. She 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.”
“Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name. I wish young ladies had not such a number of fine christian names.
I should never be out if they were all Sophys, or something of that sort. Well, this Miss Louisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry Frederick. He was courting her week after week. The only wonder was, what they could be waiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was
clear enough that they must wait till her brain was set to right. But even then, there was something odd in their way of going on. Instead of staying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see Edward. When we came back from Minehead, he was gone down to Edward’s,
and there he has been ever since. We have seen nothing of him since November. Even Sophy could not understand it. But now, the matter has take the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James Benwick. You know
James Benwick.”
“A little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick.”
“Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are married already, for I do not know what they should wait
for.”
“I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man,” said Anne, “and I understand that he bears an excellent
character.”
“Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick. He is only a commander, it is true, made
last summer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An excellent, goodhearted fellow, I assure you, a very active, zealous officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice.”
“Indeed you are mistaken there, sir. I should never augur want of spirit from Captain Benwick’s manners. I thought
them particularly pleasing, and I will answer for it they would generally please.”
“Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather too piano for me, and though very likely it is all our partiality, 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 toocommon idea of spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent Captain Benwick’s
manners as the very best that could possibly be, and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, “I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends,” but the Admiral interrupted her with,
“And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of
gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he
had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross.’ This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore, “I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth’s letter to make you and Mrs. Croft particularly uneasy. It did certainly seem, last autumn, as if there were an 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
to press the enquiry farther. She, therefore, satisfied herself with common-place remarks, or quiet attention, and the Admiral had it all his own way.
“Poor Frederick!” said he at last. “Now he must begin all over again with somebody else. I think we must get
him to Bath. Sophy must write, and beg him to come to Bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am sure. It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other Miss Musgrove, I find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson. Do not you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath?”
(перевод с англ.)
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